Trouble
by cyrilandshirley
Summary: A Brendan POV, starts from just after the fire, and looks back on how he got there.
1. Chapter 1

_I started writing this donkey's years ago, and got stuck, but thought I'd give it another try. It starts when Ste firsts breaks off with Brendan to go off with Rae (after the fire), so this isn't lovestruck Brendan, it's just at the point he starts to lose control of Ste a bit. And it's Brendan looking back to see how he got there. This stuff's been covered by other brilliant writers, so I hope this one is different enough. Don't know if anyone wants it or not! I've not written ahead this time, so the updates will come through really slowly - sorry in advance._**  
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**Trouble**

**Part 1**

I'll call him. It's been long enough. Couple of hours. He'll have come round, sure enough. Though fuck knows, he doesn't always behave like it. My phone's in my hand. He will be, soon. My hands will be on his shoulders, his neck. My thumbs will run underneath his jaw. And he'll look at me, that way that he does.

That's when I see them. He's over there. With her. Arms around. Lovey dovey. So that's how it is, yeah? Yeah.

The phone snaps shut under the pressure of my hand.

* * *

><p>I have this thing. It's … a thing. I don't know. An itch. Yeah, that's it. I have an itch, that I have to scratch. It's nothing, really. It's nothing to do with me, who I am, what I do. But sometimes I get this itch. Everyone has one, right? Booze. Charlie. I never went for either of those in a big way. I like to keep my wits about me. And at least I keep mine under control. Usually, it's no bother, this itch. I scratch it, and move on. But right now, it's giving me a serious pain in the ass.<p>

Funny, really. I never had any problem getting a woman. None at all. Maybe because I wasn't too bothered. I never chased, so I never had to chase. I always knew my way around a woman. One of the things Dad taught me. One of many things. Treat them like a lady and they'll drop their knickers fast enough, he said. Maybe not all of them. And maybe not every time. But it turns out the hit rate was pretty high. Funny really, the way fellas talk about women. Cos if anyone had talked about my sister like that, her best mate Lynsey, the ones who were family, I'd have battered them into next Wednesday. They're there to be protected.

And I didn't want it, specially. It's just one of those things you did. It's what blokes do. You pick up a girl, sweet talk her. Follow through. Leave. Maybe it was the same for the girls. They were just doing what they thought they were supposed to do, dress up, make eyes, put out, don't make demands. Maybe they didn't get any more out of it than I did, because I didn't get much. That was just the way the world worked. Our world, anyway.

Except I didn't, much. Follow through, I mean. Not my thing. Funny how I ended up getting a rep for being a bit of a gentleman, among the girls, just cos I didn't bed them the first night. Or at all. And the thing that's really funny is, that made them want me even more. You couldn't make it up.

Don't know when I first realised about the thing. Or I do, I guess. I ran into a bit of trouble. I met this lad, at school. From out of town, like me. Outsiders, the pair of us, coming in at twelve, though he wasn't like me. Everybody loved him, right from the off. He charmed the pants off them; I was the freak from the in the corner from the wrong side of the border. I looked up to him, I guess. But he walked up to me one day when we were still new, gave me a grin, and, I dunno, we just stuck together after that. Became like wingmen, had each other's backs. I never knew how much I needed a friend until he showed me.

We didn't give school our full attention, truth be known, a certain amount of bunking off was done. I didn't mind school sometimes, it was OK. One teacher said I was bright, and I could do all right if I gave it a bit less of the smart mouth. Maybe that was the problem. A lot of those lessons, and the other kids, just didn't seem all that clever to me. And I get bored easily. So we bunked off, me and him, just because that's what you do, when you're bored out of your brain and you need a break. And I didn't know where my life was going, though I'd pored over this picture book of planes and pilots when I was a kid, and let myself dream sometimes.

He was an little bit shorter than me, but tough, built. I was the lanky one, the streak of piss, til I started to work on my muscles. I used to do the bunk up, he'd go over the wall first. I can't even remember what we were escaping from, but we were always running from something or someone. We laughed a lot, hung out. Did jobs for the older guys. We were close, I guess. Mates. I slept over in his room a fair few times, or he did in mine. On the floor. Or top to tail in the bed, a few times, when it was freezing, because his Dad was pretty tight-fisted with the heating.

There were others we hung with, Malachy Fisher, always with his tongue out after some girl, and his weirdo brother Francis with the eyeliner ("It's electro," he said to me. "It's summat," I said to him, under my brows, folding another stick of gum into my mouth). But Peter was the one who made the day better just by showing up at your door. As we got older, he was all dark brown hair sticking out when he ran his hands through it, and hazel eyes, and this way of squinting against the sun and laughing. He could run rings round anyone. Physically, mentally, all of it. He was into football, and boxing, and dragged me down to the club with him, cos he said I looked like a whippet. And he was … warm. It's a fucking cold place, Belfast. And I was cold. I trusted almost nobody. Could count them on the fingers of half a hand. It made a change to be warm, like I was when Cheryl and her Mam made toast when we got in from school.

Peter. That was his name. Pete. Peter was the one who denied Jesus, wasn't he, when the cock crew? I'm sure they told us that, in Mass. Other way round, with us. I turn everything the wrong way up.

One day, we were sixteen I guess, he disappeared for a while. I went round there and he was gone. He'd gone to stay with an Uncle, or something, back near Derry, his Dad said, standing in the door, his face like fucking stone. I never found out why, and they weren't telling. I guessed maybe he'd got himself into some bother with one of the older guys, nicked some money for himself, something like that. I turned away, and I ached. I was on my own. He'd been there since I'd rocked up in Belfast, friendless, and he was … yeah, he was like a brother. A real mate. I missed him. More than I'd ever thought was possible. The way you'd miss a real mate. Reminded me of when I was a kid, and Dad upped and left. Not something I need reminding of.

I switched things up a bit, after he went. I had to watch my own back now, cos without Peter, Mal and me spent more time fighting each other than anyone else. I had to fucking grow up, and fast. God knows I had the hair sprouting everywhere to remind me. I looked at myself in the mirror, getting ready to shave one morning. My hand hesitated, with the razor. I ran the other over my face. I looked like some kid. Smallish mouth, longish lashes, clean-faced. All wrong. Like a little gay boy, Dad said, one time. I winced. Couldn't have that. I wanted to look like the man the rest of my body was straining to be. I decided to leave some stubble. And maybe more. Maybe I'd try growing a moustache, Zapata style, like Da. I stroked the down on my top lip. Nothing wrong with a bit of cover, right, when you've got no one to protect you? It would add five years. And no one fucks with a man with a Zapata, do they? I put the razor down.

He didn't turn back up for six fucking months. May to October. Then one night, he shipped up again at my door. I couldn't believe it. Standing there in the dark, he looked … different. Older, I guess. Like he'd been around a bit. But it was still him. And I guess I'd changed too, from the way he looked me up and down, the tache and all.

"All right, mate?" he said, chucking away his fag end, as if he'd only been gone for a day. He grinned at me, gave his top lip a cheeky stroke.

I think I hugged him. Nothing soppy about it, blokes do that where I'm from. It's fine to give a bit of a backslap. And I was happy to see him. And he held onto me too. I remember the smell of his jacket.

We picked up where we'd left off, and at first, it was like old times. School in the daytime, cos our parents insisted we stay on, and we were the bright ones, they kept telling us. Shoes shined, ties knotted as loose as we could get away with, smoking fags behind the bikesheds. And when school was out, a bit of recreation, mostly small time stuff, nicking, selling on. I never asked him why he'd gone away. And he didn't tell. He shrugged one time and said "A load of trouble," and winked. And we'd both been collared by the law before, so I left it at that. Sometimes, you just don't need to know.

Then one night we went on a job, and it went a bit pear-shaped, and we had to leg it. I had to bunk him up over a high fence, and then scramble over and drop myself down afterwards, and run for it. All I could hear was him laughing, a few yards in front of me, as I chased him down, cos he was fast.

"Get a fucking move on …" he was saying.

"You fucking Derry bastard …" I was yelling, and I was after him.

And then he swung off, left, into a side street and the next I saw he was swinging himself up over another high wall into someone's dark back yard. I followed him, and let myself down with a thump. We sat on the ground, panting, our backs to the wall, waiting to hear if anyone was following, and if any nosy git had heard us from the house. It was totally quiet. No one in. He looked at me and started laughing, for all it had been a total fucking disaster. And I started laughing back. He pulled out this bottle, took a swig and handed it to me, and I took a big mouthful, swallowing it down with screwed up eyes. Whiskey. Sets your throat on fire and warms your guts.

We got our breath back, but he didn't move. And neither did I. We just sat, and drank some more, and he kept looking at me, and laughing a bit. It was late but I could see the light from the street light reflected in his eyes. They were soft and dark. He held my gaze.

I don't know what it was, but I wondered why this just felt … changed. I just felt different those days, like I was outgrowing my skin. I wondered if he felt like that. He never said. His shoulder was leaning against mine. I remember the smell of that leather again, and the whiskey on his breath.

And then suddenly, I realised his mouth was very close. All my energy was focussed on his mouth, his lips. And I have this idea, in my head, that makes me want to throw up. We might kiss. I can see it in my head, feel it on my mouth, the touch of it. The whole world seems to stop. Time passes. Tick tock.

"All right, Brady?" he breaks the silence. He's grinning at me. I like the way he says my name, the shape of it in his mouth.

But his voice wakes me up, like an electric shock to the heart. I move, sharpish, shuffling on my arse as far away from him in that yard as I could, my heart thumping. I was on my feet. I had no idea I was breathing that heavily, it caught in my throat like bile.

"What's up you daft bastard?" he asked me. He looked puzzled now, the smile gone out.

"Nothing," I said. "We need to get out of here." My whole body seemed to be twitching, nervous.

"Alright, alright," he grumbled, getting to his feet. But I was already over the wall and away down the street.

It was only after that that I noticed how fecking touchy feely he was. I'd never noticed before. His arm was always round my bloody shoulders. He'd always done that. But now, a few times, I thought some of the other fellas were giving us funny looks in the pub. I tried to ignore it. He was my mate, right? And I'd always been happy enough before, hugged him back. Told myself they were probably just jealous, because we were starting to rake in a fair bit for a couple of lads.

I started seeing the girls, round about that time. Let him drag me out on the pull. I hadn't much bothered til then, but you're seventeen, eighteen, you go out with the girls, right? And I popped my cherry. I thought it was overrated. I didn't feel anything much. I thought I might be doing it wrong, but I paid attention to what some of the other guys said, things to try, and I got a bit better I think. But strange how I still didn't feel much, even if they did. Nothing, a lot of the time. But as long as you wined them and dined them and looked interested, and gave them a kiss on the cheek at the door, it seemed like you could get away with going home on your own a fair bit. It was all in the patter, I found. It's not what you do, it's how you do it. People see what they wanna see. But there was one person I couldn't bullshit.

It was him that suggested the camping trip. People don't think I'd be up for something like that now, and we were town rats, even then, but when you're a kid, there's nothing better than getting away with your mates, tent, few packets of crisps and cans of cider, lighting a fire, and a hole dug in the woods to crap in. And Belfast could do your head in sometimes. It was a rat trap, but you could see all the way to the hills and you knew you could be out of there before you could click your fingers. Or before someone came after you and dragged you back. When we were younger, we had to go on the bus, or cadge a lift with somebody's older brother when he wanted to get away with his girl, and we'd pitch our camp as far away as possible, stick our fingers in our ears, and try not to listen to the noises coming out of their tent. This time, Pete had managed to liberate a car from somewhere. I didn't ask. We'd just finished school, for good. Free men. And he was desperate to get away from some girl he'd slept with and she'd come over heavy, or her brothers had. He turned up at my door, like always, his eyes wild but his face laughing.

"I'm done with women, Brady," he said, "you gotta save me. Pack a bag, for fuck's sake, and let's get out."

His hands were on my upper arms, gripping me. I felt a weird sense of something possible, which I didn't want to think about. Like remembering something, and then making yourself forget.

"Sure," I said, "I'm up for that."

And it was fine, at first. The cider days were gone, but we had a bottle of the hard stuff. We pitched the tent, and I watched him hammering in the tent pegs, biting down on his bottom lip and flexing his muscles. I lit the fire. It was easy. Whether it was because we'd started taking swigs the moment we got there or not, I don't know, but it just all felt easy, to go from nothing to a spark to a blaze. I was loving it, him and me, though I'd have died rather than said. Blokes don't, do they? There's a load of stuff we never say. We cooked these bangers I'd nicked from the fridge, and I cracked jokes, stupid stuff, dry, sarcastic, just to hear him laugh. He tried not to, rolled his eyes at me, but he did laugh in the end. He always laughed easy. And we settled round the fire and got raddled, and I looked into the flames and felt him beside me, and found myself thinking about the two of us swimming in the river in the morning, washing ourselves clean, cos in the past, we'd always skinny dipped, and I don't know when you get too old for that. I felt an unmistakable contraction in my gut. A sense of excitement. I gritted my teeth and took a long swig from the bottle.

"Oi," he said, "take it easy Bren. That's got to last us." His hand was on the bottle, over mine. Then taken away. I shook my head, tried to focus. Smiled at him, though I couldn't see him that clearly now.

"So, you're done with women then, are ye?" I asked him.

He looked at me. Grinned. "Abso-fuckin'-lutely," he said. "Mates first, girls second." He laughed. "What about you?" His eyes looked thoughtful for a second.

I laughed, under my breath. My chest felt kind of tight. "Yeah …" I drawled, "mates first. That's me."

He was still looking at me, taking me in, half smiling. "You're a strange one, Brendan," he said. And then flashed me a grin. "Good job I like ye." And he winked, and laughed, and took a swig.

And then when we were done talking, and drinking, and joking, he decided it was time for shuteye. I could have stayed there all night really, under the sky, just looking at him, or feeling him there. I didn't want to get into that tent, stuffy, close, but I couldn't really say no. I had to watch as he peeled off his jeans, I tried to look away, focus on shrugging out of mine, but I couldn't stop myself. And he had a great body really, tough, strong, but he was real lithe back then, with these strong legs. His boxers were tight. I could see what was between those legs, the bulge of it. And I knew I was getting an erection. I was … confused about that. But I was drunk, and he was drunk, and it didn't seem to matter that much. I sat on my sleeping bag as he crawled into his and lay down, leaving it half unzipped, cos he could barely coordinate his hands really.

I remember thinking that no matter how close we were, no one closer, there were things I didn't know about him – he always had a few mysteries, even from me, where he'd been, what he'd got up to. And if I didn't try to find out, a vein in my head was going to explode.

He liked me. Maybe the same as I liked him. Maybe the same as I wanted him. I wanted him.

My hands were on the zip of his sleeping bag before I really knew it. I pulled it down and crawled in next to him.

He was laughing. I remember that really clearly.

"Bren … what the fuck?"

"It's fucking freezing," I said, "I'm coming in with you."

He was still laughing. "Get the fuck out of this sleeping bag, you faggot."

But it was too late. I was already in. And he was very close. Very close. Our bodies pretty much touching. Nothing unusual about that, right? Except for the erection. And he stopped laughing.

And then this thing happened. That thing, that I knew might happen, but knew couldn't. That.

I leaned in, and put a hand on his hip, and put my mouth against his mouth. All I can remember thinking was that my hand on his hip, my mouth on his mouth, my pelvis against his pelvis, felt better than any fucking thing I'd ever done in my miserable life. It felt … so good. Like a door opening, and someone standing there who I'd only had dreams about. I think I might have closed my eyes, for a second, so I could really feel it. I felt on fire. He seemed frozen. And then he pushed me off, rough, with the full force of his arms. He kept his hands on my biceps, gripping hard, holding me away, leaving marks on my skin. Looked at me, his mouth open in shock. No words came at first. He just looked back at me, panting. And then I heard his voice.

"What the fuck?" I heard him say.

I couldn't form any words.

"What … what the fuck? What the fuck was that?"

I heard my voice. "Nothing," I said. "Nothing. Don't …" I stopped. Closed my eyes to get his face out of my mind. I heard a kind of groan.

"What …?" he said again. "Bren …?" he sounded like I'd just broken some really bad news to him.

"Don't freak out," I said, low, "I'm sorry, OK." I opened my eyes again. He looked horrified. "Don't freak out … I'm sorry." And I don't know why, but I put a hand on his face.

He threw me off. He was suddenly all hands, pushing me away, legs, kicking out. We'd wrestled before, play fought, plenty. But this was furious. It seemed like all there was was two heartbeats, his and mine, pounding, and the look on his face, as I reeled away. He said something. His eyes, staring_._

_Bren … mate … are you …?_

And I knew I was finished. All of it, everything. Me, who I was, who I wanted to be, who I'd tried to be, Brendan Brady, eighteen, a man, a real man, a ladies' man, one of the guys. Looking into his eyes was like looking in a mirror and seeing for the first time what I'd tried not to see, for a fair while. And it disgusted me. I was a total waste of life. An abortion. I should never have been born.

I had to get out of that tent. Grabbed my jeans, shrugged them on, jumping. Trainers. My hands shaking. Went straight to where the fire was. Was vaguely aware that he was following me, trying to get dressed. I stood and looked down at the fire for a second, breathing so hard it hurt my chest. I wanted to put my hand, the one that'd been on his hip, his face, right into the red embers, burn it out, this thing that lived inside me. Instead, I grabbed the bottle of whiskey from where we'd left it, on its side. Unscrewed the top and took a big long drink, so long it made me choke and cough. And laugh. Pete was there I think, saying some stuff. He sounded worried. Funny. Very, very funny. I threw the bottle away into the grass. And I walked right over to the car, sat down in the driver's seat, and fired up the engine. We'd left the key in the ignition. There was no one round there to nick it except us.

I really didn't mean him to get in. I was a bit slow on the pedals, the handbrake, because I was hammered. And I couldn't see that well. My eyes were blurred. Wet. And he took his chance to get in. He was still talking. So we went for a drive.

_Brendan … please … mate, slow down … we need to talk … Bren … _

Talking wasn't gonna fix it. There was something coming in the opposite direction. Lights in the darkness.

_It's not your fault … I don't blame you … it's not your fault if you're …_

I steered right into those lights. That's what you do, isn't it. Head for the light. Beautiful. End of story. I think maybe the last thing I remember is his hand, grabbing the wheel.

* * *

><p>I was sat on the grass. No idea how I got there. Cradling him. No idea how I got him out.<p>

_I'm sorry … oh god … I'm fucking sorry … _

That's all.

* * *

><p>Sore. I was really, really sore. I ached, all over. Not just in my muscles, bruised, or on my skin, scratched and cut, or even in my bones, fractured. But somewhere deep down inside. As if even the effort of pumping blood around my body was too much. My head was disintegrating, but it wasn't like any hangover I'd ever had. Lights blinded my eyes. I never wanted to have to open them.<p>

I was in the hospital, anyway. I wasn't dead. Cheryl's ma was there. I remember her stroking my brow, her voice. There'd been an accident, she said. I lay and thought about Peter, but it was like he was lost in a fog. I focussed on her voice. I loved her voice. But it was bringing me back, and it hurt like hell. I remembered some things I'd wanted to forget. Some things I'd wanted to erase, rub out forever, that stabbed me in the heart, if I still had one of my own. I remembered Peter. I wondered if he was dead. And I wondered, for a passing second, if I wanted him to be.

_He's in intensive care, love, _she said to me, quietly. _He's very bad. Spinal chord injury. They think he might not walk._

I lay there and cried. Relief. Disappointment. Love. Hate. Pleasure. Pain. Want. Fear.

What's the difference?

* * *

><p>I didn't want to see him. I guess everyone thought it was guilt, and there was something in that. I'd destroyed his life. But then after a while they were going to discharge me. I couldn't sleep, that last night, and it wasn't the fractured arm, or the fractured skull. I lay awake and stared at the ceiling. And then I got up and went to find him. I'd got up a few times, and it was always a surprise how much it hurt. How old I felt, like I'd aged ten years in that hospital. I shuffled towards intensive care, careful of the pain.<p>

He was in a private side room. I let myself in and closed the door.

He looked half dead. Like he'd been ten rounds with McGuigan and come out the worse end of it. He was strapped to some kind of framework, to keep him still. There was plaster. Bandages. Tubes. Monitors.

I held back for a second. Repulsed. A mistake, to come and see him like this. A bleeding mistake. What the fuck was I hoping to achieve? I was going to leave. But a nurse came in, to check on him. She looked surprised. Looked at me, wary, as she checked the monitors and wrote things on one of those clipboards they have.

"Remembered anything more yet?" she asked me.

I shrugged. Shook my head. "Not much."

"Hmm," she said, drily. "Lucky." And walked out.

Yeah. That's me. I'm real lucky. I guess everyone was waiting to find out exactly how I'd nearly killed the best friend I'd ever had.

But it made me move. I went over there, to the bed. Stood and looked down at him. He was a mess. I wanted to put a hand out, but I didn't know if there was any part of him I was allowed to touch. I'd hurt him enough already. In the end, I reached out and put the back of my hand against his cheek, gave it a quick, light stroke. And he woke up, and opened his eyes. For a second, he didn't seem to recognise me. His eyes were blank, dark, confused. And I hated that, that he didn't know me. We were best mates, for fuck's sake. He put out his tongue to lick his lips, which looked dry, cracked. There was a red scar on his mouth, I noticed, where it had been cut and blood had dried and made a scab. He'd always had a great mouth. Great smile. He wasn't smiling now.

But then he spoke to me. It was a bit indistinct, just a whisper really, but I leant in, and I heard it.

"Fucking hell, Bren" he said to me, "where've you been, you fucking bastard?"

The only reason I could tell he was trying to smile, was his eyes. I dunno why, but I almost smiled back.

"Being discharged, tomorrow," I said.

He just kept looking at me, and gave a kind of grunt. I guess he couldn't nod, with being strapped to the frame, a band over his head. I felt a need to say something. Just to keep talking.

"Do you want anything from home?" I asked him. "I could bring it in, next coupla days."

He frowned for a moment, and I wasn't sure if it was pain or concentration. Then he managed to get a word out.

"Whiskey?"

I pulled back to look at his face, and he was giving a sort of wheezy laugh. And it was like we were pals again. And I wanted to keep it that way, I did. A guy needs his best mate. If it could have been just him and me, it might have been all right. But I had to ask him. I just had to. Something drove me to do it, something I wasn't in control of, a devil sitting right on my shoulder. I frowned. It took a while to find the words. They came out sounding like a betrayal. Or a threat. Or a plea.

"D'ye remember much?" I asked him.

His smile faded. He looked at me for a long time, as if he was looking for something in my face. I don't know what he was looking for. There was a question in his eyes, anyway, that I couldn't answer. It made me uncomfortable. I cleared my throat. Eventually, he spoke. His voice sounded thick.

"My head's mashed," is all he said.

"OK," I said. "I'll check in on you in a few days." His hand was on the covers. I put my fingers over his, and gave it a squeeze, felt him squeeze back, just a little bit. I think his eyes were looking for mine, but I couldn't meet his gaze. I held his hand in my hand, like all those other times when we'd met and gripped each other palm to palm like men, but I couldn't look at him. My throat was tight. I think I knew I'd never be able to look him in the eye the same way again.

"I'll see you, Bren," he said, his voice croaky as hell, but clearer than before. He sounded sad, actually.

"Yeah," is all I said. "I'll see you."

And then I let go of his hand, and I walked out of the room.

I meant to go back. I did. But at home, I was up against the Inquisition from Dad. The questions came at me like bullets. Who'd done what. Why. Exactly what kind of fuckwits were we. Why I'd let him down. Why I'd never be the man he wanted me to be. Things were difficult. I put it off. And a couple of weeks later, I heard he got relocated. Some rehab place, miles out of town. Specialist treatment. They were talking about a chair. And I just … it was too late to make it right.

I don't know what happened about the charges. I don't know if Da did something to make it go away, cos he was good like that. Made me pay for it in other ways, anyhow. Slapped me across the room until my head was spinning, arm in plaster or no. Or maybe because Peter took most of the rap. Admitted he wasn't insured to drive that crate anyway. Said he made me drive. In the end, it looked like he'd led _me_ astray and paid the price. Ironic really. Cos it was only his hand on the wheel that smashed us into a tree, rather than that truck. Without it, we'd both have been in our graves.

They heal, bones and scratches. Mostly. You might not be completely the fucker you were before, but you just have to drag on. I got rid of the plaster, and the bandages. I had a few scars. One on my chin from broken glass which no stubble would cover completely. But I'd escaped. I'd been delivered from evil. Part of me was dead. My childhood, maybe, what there was of it. But another part of me felt strangely alive. I started working out, to build the muscles back up. I was stronger, taller. And I went back to work. For Dad, now. I focussed on the business, building myself up, getting a rep. I could be relied on, they said. What I was asked to do, I always did. I didn't get distracted. I was one of the lads. A regular guy. I made cash. I focussed on that.

I don't think about him much, now, Peter. It's amazing, what you can bury. I was itchy, for a while. Thought there might be talk. But there was no word from the hospital. And even if there was, I liked to think I was becoming a big enough man to be able to shut up the gossip, and anyone who spread it, in my own special way. It's an interesting thing, seeing fear in somebody's eyes. And I forgot about that yard, and the campsite, and the tent, and the car. It was irrelevant. It wasn't me.

Later, I heard he turned his life around, sided with the angels. Volunteered with kids. Went to Uni. Moved in different circles. Had a different life. Found salvation.

But I never got a chance to tell him. He made a mistake.

Because I'm not gay.


	2. Chapter 2

_Thank you to the lovely people who commented on the first part! Really didn't know if anyone would want to read this, so it means a load. Here's another chunk of the Brady._

**Trouble**

**Part 2**

I knew from the second date with Eileen that she was a bit different, from the moment she reached up and straightened my collar, smoothed the lapels of my jacket. She put things in order for me that I didn't even know were out of whack. I don't count the first time we hung out, that was just in a club, mucking about, and I was layin' on the charm, and she looked at me and pouted and said, "I can see right through you, Brendan Brady," and for a moment, my blood ran cold, but then she laughed, a bit nervous, and said "You gonna ask me out then, Brendan, or does a girl have to do everything herself?" And the other guys were watching, so I did.

I'd known her since way back, she was around, at school, the year below, but I didn't know her well. I don't know if I'd ever have gone as far as asking her out, I usually went for girls who were easier, easy to ask, easy to leave. But she was different. I picked her up from her Ma and Pa's, and they had a nice house. He worked for the local Council, she said. I didn't know people like that much. But they seemed to have a nice life. And she liked nice things, classy things. She had a job of her own, straight from school, admin stuff, and she could afford it. I remember she was wearing these earrings, gold, that dropped down against her neck, and this sea green dress, not too flashy. She was small, petite I guess they call it, and slim, boyish. Her eyes were green, uncanny. And when she reached up and straightened my collar, and rested a hand on my chest, it was just a little bit like she'd already decided I was her business.

She hadn't slept with many guys, and I liked that. She didn't ask for it much, she was careful, and I liked that as well. But she did ask for it. Expected it, anyway. I put it off. I didn't much want to touch her that way, it seemed wrong. Maybe just because she was such a classy number. I didn't want to hurt her. I knew, for all my smooth talk, that I could be a bit of a brute. She made me feel too big, too strong, like I would break her. In the end, she got me round there under false pretences. Her Ma and Pa were out, there was wine, she took me by the hand and we went off to the bedroom to get it out of the way. And it wasn't so bad. Her body was skinny with flat planes and small breasts. It changed, later, with the boys, but back then it was different. And I quite liked the way she clung. She seemed to enjoy it, anyway. There's something to be said for not being compared against too many other fellas, though I like to think I can hold my own.

It wasn't the sex that really did it for me, anyway. Maybe it was just having someone there, on my arm. Something steady. We looked good together, I knew that. A pretty handsome couple. Though truth is, there was more than that as well. She just wasn't like the others. She started to feel like … almost like a friend. She had a way of getting under my skin. We'd meet up for a date, and sit down with a drink, and she'd want to talk. Not just stupid stuff, flirting. One day, couple of months in, she looked at me, thoughtful, and said "What do you want to do with your life, Brendan?"

I was caught on the hop. I'd thought about it, sometimes, but never shared. You don't talk about that stuff. You deal with your lot. I shook my head. "I dunno. Make a living. Doesn't everyone?"

She sipped her drink, and frowned a bit. "Don't you want more? You passed your exams, didn't you?"

"Yeah." Because I had. I found that out later that summer, after the crash. Last thing me and Peter did together. We both passed our exams. It didn't seem to matter much now, a year on. I decided to deflect it. "What about you, then? Gonna be a top businesswoman?"

She toyed with the stem of her glass. "You'll laugh," she said.

"I won't," I said, leaning in, watching her squirm a bit, enjoying it, but knowing I was already getting ready to make a joke of it, whatever it was.

She cleared her throat. Seemed to decide to trust me, I don't know why. "I quite fancy working for an airline."

She stopped, took a sip. I nodded. "OK." She seemed to be waiting for something. She cracked.

"Are you gonna make with the trolley dolly jokes, Brendan, cos if you are, get on with it," she said.

I shook my head, slowly. "Nope." It was a surprise, I'll give her that, but I couldn't laugh at it really. She talked, into the silence.

"I just … y'know … fancied the travel," she said. "Just for a bit. Before I settle down."

I nodded. "I know what you mean, yeah."

"You do? I always thought you'd live and die in Ireland, Brendan."

I traced a pattern on the table with my finger. Sniffed. No harm in admitting stuff to someone. I hadn't had anyone close to talk to for a long time. Frowned.

"I always thought I might go for a pilot." I didn't totally look at her. I tapped the table with my fingers. When I looked up, she wasn't laughing either. She looked interested.

"Wow," she said. "That's unexpected. Maybe we're more alike than we know." She was looking at me, thoughtful.

I sat back, clasped my hands between my legs, shrugged. "Stupid idea, though," I said.

"No," she said, "why?"

I shrugged again. "I've got commitments," I said, thinking of Dad, and how there was always some job he wanted me to do. How he seemed to think I always owed him something.

"Hmm," she said. Unpersuaded.

"What?"

"It's just …" she hesitated, and I looked at her, long and hard. She sat forward, resting her arms on the table, and looked back at me. "I've always thought you're one of those people … if you want something badly enough, nothing'll stop you getting it."

I was surprised. I looked at her, and she seemed like something I needed right then. Shrewd. An ally.

"You could do anything you want," she said. She sounded sincere. No one spoke to me like that. No one much believed in me like that. "So do you still want it, Brendan?" she asked me.

"Yeah," I said, looking at her. "I'd like to give it a try."

"Can you get the money?"

"Probably," I said, guardedly. Because I had a fund. A little stash that I'd been building since I don't know when, a few grand, for when I might need it, to get away.

She smiled at me. "Then get to it," she said. "Where do you sign up?"

I laughed, under my breath. She made it seem like things were possible that I'd almost written off. I found I was smiling back, just a little bit. "Maybe," I said.

The next few months were … unreal. It was like we were plotting something together. I banged in an application. We even sat and looked together at the brochures. And I got called up for the assessment. I swotted for it, in my spare time. She tested me. No one else knew. I got a friend of a friend to take me up in his light aircraft, the week before, show me the ropes. He was a good bloke. It was the only time in my life, up there, looking down, that I felt completely free from my shitty life. Like anything was possible. Like nothing was chaining me to the ground. Like I could be King of the fucking world. Like I could be the man I wanted to be. And I didn't notice. I didn't notice that in the last few weeks before the assessment, she was a bit quiet. That she was off sex. She still seemed to like me, she just didn't take me home, and I never pushed. Not my style. Anyway, I had enough in my head to keep me happy. I was buzzing.

I went to the airport training centre for the assessment. Two whole days. I told Dad I was just out of town to see a mate. Two whole days, with a bunch of other guys who wanted what I wanted. It was a blast. They didn't intimidate me. I felt normal. I felt as good as them, and better. I went home on cloud ninety-nine, and rang Eileen. Sure, she said, sounding flat and tired, she'd meet me tomorrow.

I was in a great mood. I think I talked a lot, more than usual. And she sat, and listened, and toyed with her juice. In the end, she interrupted.

"Brendan … I'm so sorry …"

She looked on the verge of tears. I stopped.

"What?" I said.

"I'm pregnant."

It's strange how even now, when I remember it, I swear I can hear the sound of doors, closing.

* * *

><p>I never thought about marriage, kids. Well, I did, but to me they were something way down the line. I'd do it, men do, just not yet. And kids. The responsibility of them. The weakness of them, needy. The love of them. Absolute, unconditional. Here it all was. I was just twenty, she was nineteen.<p>

And we'd used protection. Every damn time. I seriously had no desire to go bareback. I respected her too much. I don't know what went wrong. Seems like something was just stacked against us.

She looked more shocked than me, if anything.

"What'll we do, Brendan?" she asked me.

I reached over and squeezed her hand. She was crying now. No hesitation. "We'll get married, yeah?" She looked at me, unsure. "You want that? Hm?" I stroked back some of her hair. Funny. How when someone else is weak, needs reassuring, I can always fake it, put up the brave front. Someone has to.

She sort of hiccupped, and tried to stop crying, wiped her face with her free hand. "Yeah," she said. "OK. I guess."

Not the most romantic proposal. Or acceptance. But she squeezed my hand, hard, and I squeezed back. She needed me. And so did the baby. I was stunned by the realisation, dawning, of how badly I wanted it. Something all of my own. Something to protect. I could make sure their life didn't end up like mine. Put it right.

Telling her Ma and Da wasn't a bundle of laughs. I thought telling my Da would be even worse. I thought he'd tell me I was a fucking idiot, blow me away with his scorn. But it wasn't like that. He actually looked at me like I'd finally got something right. He liked Eileen, a lot. He was all over us, pretty much, cracking open the whiskey. And he didn't know it, but in my head, this was it. I finally got to move out, build my own family, away from him. Become the man. Maybe this wasn't so bad.

I let her get on with planning the wedding. It had to be quick, so just the church and then the pub, after, but she wanted it nice, nice dress, all that. I let the girls sort all that stuff, Cheryl, her ma, Eileen's older sister. I went out and found us a flat – nice little place to start. She was happy. She felt looked after.

"What'll we do for money, though?" she asked me, one day.

I shook my head. "Don't worry about it. I've got a bit of cash."

"But that was for the pilot's classes," she said to me. She sounded uneasy.

"I didn't get in," I told her, and took a swig of my beer.

"I'm sorry," she said. "You never said."

"Don't be," I said. "I've got a family to plan for now."

The acceptance for flight training came through two days later. I stood and looked at it for a few seconds. Then folded it up, and again, tight in on itself. And threw it in the bin.

* * *

><p>It was all fine. I was going to be a husband and father. And it was quick, but that's what a real man wants, right? And I found myself a job, away from Dad, managing the bar of this club. It didn't pay much, and it would be late hours, but I knew there would be more money on the side for anyone who was prepared to go extra-curricular. It was that kind of place.<p>

And then one day about two weeks before we went to the church, something happened. I was supposed to be going to see the Father about the fee. I left her sitting with her sister, and her sister's kid running round, this funny little boy, 'bout ten, who looked at me with curious eyes, not easily scared off. They were talking about flowers and babies, and Eileen was running her hand over the bump that was just starting to show. Our little girl. We'd had the scan. I kissed her goodbye.

I got as far as the church. I stood and looked at the doors. I'm not much of a one for confession, or forgiveness, or any of that. But I found myself wondering what would happen if I went in and confessed my sins. If I opened my heart. If God would be able to look inside me, and if he would see that I couldn't breathe. That I was dying. Maybe I was already dead. A dead man, walking.

I just couldn't get my feet to go over the threshold.

I walked home instead, shoved a few things in a duffle bag, got a bus to Belfast station, and got on a train. I'm not proud of it. I fucked off, like a coward.

* * *

><p>I don't know what I was thinking. It was unreal. But I knew where I was heading. Where I always go. Dublin. It still felt like it was mine, my place, though it was years since we'd left. And I didn't really know anywhere else. I'd grown up in Dublin, with Mum. Dad had left, gone up to Belfast, met this other woman, started again. Maybe he met her before he left, who knows. Probably. I guess she got pregnant. That's the way it seems to go.<p>

But even after I moved in with them, after Mum died, he went back to Dublin for business sometimes, and he'd take me with him. No one had any godamn cash in Belfast, he always said. Plenty of desperation, but no fucking money to be made out of it. Dublin was the place. Sometimes he'd take both of us, me and Cheryl. He'd spoil her rotten, take her to Bewley's for ice cream sundaes. He'd never taken me to Bewley's for a fucking ice cream sundae when we still lived there, and that's the fucking truth. But it's different for boys. We'd got close, me and my sister. Not like best mates, we didn't tell each other everything, but we hung out together, watching TV, cracking jokes, and she always made me laugh. And I had to take care of her. I knew that. She's got a big heart, and it gets her into a mess sometimes. And she was younger than me, and someone had to do it. Just in case Dad wasn't in the mood that day. He was good at the talk, but he didn't always deliver what he promised, I'd learned that the hard way. So it had to be me.

I checked into a B&B when I got there. Just some low rent place. I lay on the bed and drank whisky and stared at the ceiling, and wondered if I should get on the ferry to Liverpool. How far I could keep running. But I couldn't stay there forever. The first night, I went out, found a bar, dark, dingy, somewhere I didn't know and wouldn't be recognised. I got steadily drunk, and then staggered back to the B&B to sleep, and woke up with a blistering hangover. The second night, I went back. I had no idea what I was looking for. Company, maybe. Anything. Anything, to forget. I was aware that I was being eyed up, a few times. By girls, obviously. But I had no interest. None at all. If I'd wanted it, I had all that back in Belfast, no one better. I felt sick at the thought.

"Mind if I sit? It's a bit crowded."

I looked up. A young guy, who'd been standing by the bar. He'd glanced over, couple of times.

I shrugged. "Knock yourself out."

He pulled up a stool and sat down.

"You here last night?" he asked me.

"Maybe," I said.

He nodded. "On your own?"

I cleared my throat. He was mildly annoying. "Possibly," I said.

He sort of pouted. "Thought you looked lonely."

"No," I said, shaking my head, slowly, "No." I took a drink. I'd never felt so fucking lonely in my life, as it happens, but no one needed to know that but me. He was still watching me, as I necked the bottle.

"You from Dublin?" he asked me. "You sound local."

I just looked at him, long and steady. So many questions. Brown hair. Hazel eyes. Tattoo on his collar bone, I remember. A strange challenge in his face. A message passing from his eyes to mine.

He laughed, into the awkward silence. "Don't say much, do you?"

And I almost laughed back, but contained it. "No," I said, "no, I don't."

He smiled, showing his teeth. Nice teeth. Nice smile. It was strangely relaxing. Maybe I was drunk.

"Fancy a drink?" he asked me, gesturing towards the bottle sat in front of me on the table, my hand around it.

"I have a drink," I said. "Why would I need another?" I tilted my head on one side, gave him a good long look.

He was still smiling, just a bit. "I don't know," he said. "Why would you?"

I did laugh this time, under my breath. And he grinned, cheeky as fuck. There was a pause, while his smile faded, but he held my gaze. Then he got up, suddenly.

"I'm going out for a smoke," he said. He dug in his pocket for a packet of fags, held it up. He looked at me, for what seemed a long time. "Want one?"

I looked him up and down. He was slim. Soft voice.

"Sure," I said.

I don't smoke much, but I did a bit back then.

He headed out, and I watched him leave, his back disappearing, the planes of his shoulder blades clear through his thin T shirt. I got up. I went via the gents, to let him get ahead. I dunno why, but when I washed my hands, they were shaking a bit. I cracked my knuckles, to steady them. When I looked at myself in the mirror, I looked like someone else. Strange.

By the time I got outside, there was no sign. Then I saw him, leaning against a wall. The end of his fag was lit up, orange, in the night. When he saw me, he levered his weight up off the wall, and disappeared round the corner into a dark alley. I followed.

He looked at me for a moment. Took out his fag, blew smoke into the air, and held it out to me. I shook my head. I dunno what it was, but suddenly it wasn't a smoke I wanted. He threw it away instead. Put a hand on my neck. And pulled me into a kiss.

Fucking hell. Never … never experienced anything like that before. Not even that one time. Not two way, like this. And nothing like kissing a girl. Nothing. It was hard, mouths open. He tasted of a mixture of beer and fag smoke, and something else. Something male. Something about sex. That's a lot better than it sounds, by the way. And it just felt … right. Like being plugged in, and the switch flicked.

I don't know why I went through with it. I guess I just thought … I'm turned on, and it's just sex, it's just sex like all those girls, and he's up for it. Except I wanted this a lot more. I seriously wanted this a fuck of a lot more. And he sure as hell wanted me. His tongue was all over the inside of my mouth, and his hand was rubbing my crotch, and it felt fucking amazing. But he was getting the upper hand, and I couldn't have that. I unbuckled him, fast, put my hand into his jeans, and … fuck. I had my hand around another man's cock. But it's OK, right, as long as you stay in control, as long as you can walk away whenever you want. I squeezed. He moaned, and winced. His mouth was millimetres from mine. He was a bit of a fucking tease actually. He raised his eyebrows.

"What do you want then?" he asked me.

"What do you mean?" I asked him, getting close up in his face. I didn't like the idea that he might set the agenda.

"How far have you gone?" He was half smiling.

I looked at him. Gave him another squeeze. "I don't do anything by halves," I said.

He laughed, his voice a bit unsteady. "Let's start easy," he said. And he got down on his knees, pushed down my boxers, pumped my dick a few times, though I was already rock hard, then opened his mouth. My stomach gave a lurch. A few licks, first, wet, rough. Feeling myself starting to dissolve, the lines between the things I let myself know, and the things I didn't. And then his whole mouth, tight, soft, dark round O that I could lose myself in, over and over.

Hard not to watch in the half dark, as he sucked, rhythmic and slippery. Hard not to grip the back of his head, pump into it. Hard not to wince at the obscene pleasure of it. Hard not to feel I was going straight to hell, and unable to do a damn thing to save myself. Hard not to realise that this was what a blow job was meant to be like, this, just and exactly this.

I think I was probably a bit rough with him, because it wasn't like being sucked off by a girl. There was something … just something about it. The pressure of his hands on my backside, and the furious energy of it, and the sounds from his throat, grunting with my movements. It was like every pore on my skin was suddenly wide open. Every nerve ending was having a fucking party. I felt sweat on my forehead. Running down between my shoulder blades. The strain in my muscles and tendons. The rhythm of my hips bucking forward seemed like a rhythm I could have been dancing to all my fucking life. And I sure as hell had no trouble coming – shot my load right into his pretty mouth, felt him swallow. I felt my dick drop from his mouth, my heart thumping harder than it did before any job I'd done. Or after, when I was running away. My brain reassembled itself, as he stood up to face me. I breathed hard. No harm done, yeah? World didn't end. Just a blowie. So why was my whole body shaking? My brain still melting? My breathing hurting my chest?

And then he reached for my hand, wrapped it round his dick, tight, putting his own hand over mine, and I jerked him off until he came, our mouths pressed together, hot and needy, the slipperiness of his tongue, and a taste I'd never tasted before but was like I was born to. He didn't seem to have a problem coming either, breathing and making guttural, masculine moans. I've had spunk on my hands before, but it was always my own. This was a new experience.

As his body relaxed against mine, I felt something shift. Like going from colour to black and white, or something. From lust to numbness. Emptiness. And from emptiness to revulsion. A sense of unbelievable distaste washed over me. I reached for a handkerchief in my pocket. Wiped my hand, threw it away, and then buckled back up. I felt a weird sense of removal.

He was leaning back against the wall again, breathing deeply, a satisfied expression on his face. He lit up another cigarette, offering the box to me this time. I shook my head. Filthy habit, really. Disgusting, putting that stuff in your lungs. And it wasn't good for the baby. I decided to give it up, there and then, though I could have done with something to calm my nerves. The blood was still pumping in my head. It was interfering with my vision. I shook my head to try and clear it. He took a long drag and looked at me through the smoke, eyes narrowed.

"What part of Dublin are you from, then?" he asked me.

For some reason, the hackles went up on the back of my neck.

"No part you'd know," I said.

He looked at me for a moment, then shrugged. "I'm only asking. I could drop in."

I felt my guts twist.

"No," I said. I reached into my pocket, unfolded some of the money I had left, and held it out to him. I don't know why I did it. It just seemed for the best.

A look of disbelief crossed his face. "I'm not a fucking rent boy," he said. Then a look of half-realisation. "You really haven't done this before, have you?"

I stopped. This was a mess. I needed to get myself out of it, and I wasn't sure how. He thought he had the upper hand here. I felt my hands twitch. I clenched them. They were sweating.

He took another puff on his fag, and blew the smoke away through that mouth. Then he almost laughed.

"Oh, I get it," he said. "You'll be getting back to your girlfriend then, will ye?" He tutted, a mocking expression in his eyes. I felt a weird sense of anticipation. "What _would _she say if she knew?"

I laughed, but it sounded uneasy even to me. Then I turned and started to walk. I didn't need to take this shit from a queer. But these guys, they really don't know when to stop pushing, they're worse than women. I heard him speak, behind me.

"Don't I even get a goodbye kiss?" His voice was a tease.

I'm not really clear on what happened next, but I think I had him pinned up against the wall again, my hands gripping his shoulders, his mouth was very close, and I was giving him a shake, banging him against the wall, once, hard. Twice. Three times.

He tensed, yelping as his head hit the wall. But he didn't fight back. Why didn't he fucking fight back? Push me off? That's what we do, right, us lads? We fight. If I could only stop looking at his mouth. His mouth was open, breathing hard, like before, when he wanted it. But his eyes were scared now.

I could have hit him. But he was nothing. He was trash. Good-looking trash maybe, but trash. And the red mist seemed already to be starting to fade from in front of my eyes. Anyway, it had already done the trick. It showed him who was in charge here, who was dictating the terms. Me.

I leant in, very close, and spoke into his face.

"If you ever come near me again, I will kill you," I said, slowly, through my teeth. "Understand?" His eyes were blank with fear now. "Yeah?"

He nodded.

"Can't hear you," I said.

"Yeah," he said, his voice sounding thick, blank, dead.

"Good," I said. And put him down. And walked away.

I walked fast. I needed to get out of there. I needed to be as far away from there as possible. I went straight back to the B&B, dumped my bag on the bed, and shoved my few things back in. My hands fumbled everything. I felt like I wanted to tear things, burn things. It was nothing, it was nothing.

But I kept on remembering the taste of him. The feel of him. And the look on his face when I had my hands on him, rough, dangerous.

I sat down on the bed, ran hands through my hair. Get a grip, I told myself. Get a fucking grip. My hands were shaking. I had to reach for the bottle and take a couple of drinks before they stopped. Before I felt like myself again.

What was I gonna do? Keep running? My eyes were wet. I felt a sense of shame. For crying, nothing else.

I knew what I wanted to do. And what I was going to do.

I went straight to the station and sat on the platform through the early hours, my jacket pulled round me, waiting for the first train in the morning. Freezing. Grey. By the time it pulled in to the platform, ready to leave, I could barely move. I don't know how I felt, sitting on that train, going home. I knew if I let myself think about it, it would contaminate me. But strangely, as the train got further from Dublin, and I looked out of the window at the rain, my arms folded over my chest, something happened. It didn't seem real. It was surprisingly easy to separate out what had happened. It wasn't part of me. It was absolutely fucking nothing. I wasn't like that guy. I had a girl, and a kid on the way. My kid. So I couldn't be.

Anyway, it didn't matter. I was going home to my girls. They needed me.

* * *

><p>I wouldn't describe my Dad as an understanding man. When I walked in, on that Monday morning, probably stinking of whiskey and unshaven, he didn't go out of his way to understand.<p>

"Where the fuck have you been?" he asked, getting up, walking towards me with fury in his face. "Look at the state of ye! Your Eileen's been out of her head with worry."

I backed away. I didn't need this. And I didn't want to be goaded into doing something I'd regret.

"Just had to get away," I said. "I'm back now."

"Damn fucking right you're back," he said, into my face. "What the fuck were you thinking?"

"Nothing. My head was done in …"

"Your head …?" He looked disbelieving. He gave me a shove. "No one gives a fuck about your head! You've got responsibilities!"

"I know …"

"You've got to man up, Brendan! What are you, a fucking nancy?" His hands were on my arms. "Step up, for once in your life."

I didn't plan it. But I snapped. I pushed him backwards, hard. He nearly fell over a chair. My hands were grabbing his shirt before I knew what I was doing. He was bent half back over the table. I spoke very low, and clear, between clenched teeth.

"I don't need any fucker to tell me that," I said, into his face.

And then I dropped him. He was pathetic really. Don't know why he still had any hold over me, I thought I'd broken it years back. I went and locked myself in the bathroom and stood under the shower, as hot as I could bear, as if I could scald it out of me, the fag smoke, and the smell of that alley, that club.

Then I went round to Eileen's.

"I'm sorry," I said, straight off. "I won't let you down again."

And she just put her arms around me and held me, tight. Strange. She never even asked me where I'd been.

* * *

><p>We got married. I don't remember much, except Eileen, looking great. Big, but beautiful. And Cheryl and Lynsey getting drunk at the reception and dancing to some terrible pop record they knew all the words for.<p>

_Do you play with the girls, play with the boys?  
>Do you ever get lonely playing with your toys?<br>We can talk, we can sing  
>I'll be the queen and you'll be the king<br>Hey boy, in your tree  
>Throw down a ladder, make room for me<br>I got a house with windows and doors  
>I'll show you mine if you show me yours …<em>

Embarrassing, really, though I love my sis to bits. I could hardly watch.

We went away for a few days, afterwards, to the West Coast. Donegal. Stayed in some B&B where they treated Eileen like a princess, with the baby on the way and everything. We didn't get up to anything. Mainly just cuddled. I think she would have, but she'd had some problems with blood pressure, and I didn't want to do anything to hurt the baby. Or her. Probably not what either of us had in mind when it came to a honeymoon.

She died, though. The baby. Thirty weeks. No heartbeat. No real reason, they said. It just happens, sometimes. I'd gone with her, for the scan. I nearly didn't, they needed me in work, but I managed to get out of it. I had to be there, to look after my family. Except we didn't have one. They had to go ahead and induce delivery. Afterwards, they brought her in for us to hold. Very small. Dark hair. She just looked like she was asleep, really. The chaplain came in to baptize her for us. We called her Niamh. It means brightness. And eternally young.

Eileen was crying, and I held her, and she realised I was too. The only time in my life I ever shed tears in front of her. Ever. So it was her, holding on to my hands in the end.

"It's OK," she said.

"No," I said, shaking my head. "No, it's not OK."

"No," she said. And she put her forehead against mine, and we let it out. I'd never been that open to anyone before. Or since, really.

For a while, I wondered if I was being punished. I'd been given this child to look after, and I'd let her down, and this was the result.

_I am the resurrection and the life_, the Father said, as they lowered her into the ground.

And I don't know why, but I thought about Peter. I'd got away with it once. He'd come back from the dead, though god knows it was bad enough, I'd taken away most of his life. And no one knew. I'd been given a second chance. You'd think I would have learned. But I went there again. And we lost Niamh. This time, no one was coming back.

I know it doesn't work like that. It's not just A leads to B, crime and punishment, sin and damnation. The world's a lot messier and more fucked up than that. There's plenty don't get what they deserve, good or bad. But I swore right there on my daughter's grave that I wouldn't make that mistake again. That thing, that had driven me to go to Dublin, it was the weak part of me, defective. And If I had to choose, then my kids, my wife, would always come first.

Always.


	3. Chapter 3

**Part 3**

This isn't some fucking tragedy, my life. I'm like any other guy. I've had my time in the dark, and my time in the sun. Couldn't wish for better, really.

The years after the boys were born were the best. Absolute top of the mountain. Nothing can beat holding your son in your arms and swearing on all that's precious that you will keep them safe, no one will ever touch them, and that they will always know that they're loved.

They say you shouldn't try again straight away, some people. We should grieve for our little girl. But we'd done our grieving. And Eileen needed me, she reached out to me, and if I could help her with that, then I would. Maybe I needed her, as well. She fell pregnant within months. This time, she gave up work. No wife of mine was working while she was carrying my child. I barely let her get out of her chair for nine months, and she loved it. There were a few scares, and we were straight down the hospital, her holding on to my hand so tight I almost lost all feeling. But we got there, and you forget all that. She went into labour, ten at night. The baby was born at six, in the morning light, when I was starting to forget what was up and what was down. A boy. Healthy. Seven pounds three ounces. He didn't cry, right off. They gave him a smack and my heart lurched. And then he yelled his head off. I think maybe I was crying, but I got a grip before Eileen saw. They passed him to me, first. Blue eyes, like mine. Mid brown hair, like Eileen's. We called him Declan. Full of goodness, apparently, she said, from the book of names. Well he'd need to be, to make up for his Dad I guess. I had a family to feed, and I was learning to break the rules to get what we needed.

We waited a few years before Padraig. Declan was enough, for a while. He was everything. He was who we got up for at night, who we put food on the table for, and whose funny expressions and laughs and tears and first words and first steps gave our days shape, and our lives. He made everything worthwhile. But then when he was four, and we started to think about school, she thought he needed a brother or sister, and we tried again. She always fell quickly. Good job, really. In the years in between, sex had gone to the wall, most of the time. That's normal though, when you've got kiddies, right? We were beyond tired. Declan never slept well. I worked late. We were knackered. You hardly feel up for it when you're so drained you fall asleep as soon as you hit the sofa in the evening. We slept at different times, took turns to get up.

And in between? I got on with my life. I did what blokes do. Got by. Cut people favours, call them in again. And I had my distractions. Drank, but never as much as the other fella. Call it a rule of mine. I snorted charlie, a couple of times, just to be sociable, but it made my heart race, and I don't need that. I need it slow and steady, so I can judge my next move, go for the win. I played pool, snooker, poker. Boxed. I spent a lot of time in that fucking boxing gym.

Sometimes, when I was there, in that gym, I felt it. That thing. That itch. That desire to be someone else, do something else. In the curve of someone else's back, or arms, or butt. I wasn't looking. I looked, and looked away. And if I felt it, at least I could just take it out on the fucking punchbag. Or whichever other poor fella was in the ring with me at the time. But I kept it under control.

I kept it under control by going out of town, where I wasn't known. There was never any lack of excuse, for a man on business. And I never had any trouble. I don't know why they always seemed to zone in on me actually. It's not as if there weren't enough real queer fellas around, gay, whatever, who could fuck them. Strange.

I used hotels. Anonymous places, where I could be that someone else. And lock the door, and take my time. I'll admit, I got a taste for it. And in those rooms, I found that this thing, sex, whatever, comes in different shapes, and sizes, and forms. Comes with its own different sounds, and smells, and flavours, that make your mouth water, and your chest pound, and your skin prickle and sweat, and your legs ache. That rip the breath out of your mouth.

Always pick a guy who's not your equal, I found. Whole heap less trouble. And yeah, I fucked them. It was what they wanted, lying back and asking for it. It was only a fuck, in the end. A bit strange, the first time, with the johnnies and the tube of stuff, but I wasn't stupid, I knew what they were for. Unbelievably fucking tight, and a fucking turn-on. An explosion in my head, my groin, my balls. A fucking supernova. But basically no different to any of the girls all the other guys were fucking, whether they had wives, girlfriends, or whatever. And I think I realised I really didn't need to worry about it. I couldn't feel anything about any of them, though they were all right as sex, because they weren't like me, and you can't feel anything for people who aren't like you, can you? They had their lives, and it wasn't their fault they were the way they were. But I had mine. And I was a husband and father. I meant no disrespect to Eileen. And it wasn't like being unfaithful really, with it being other guys.

I didn't forget all those promises. To myself. To the fella upstairs. God, the devil, whatever.

_I renounce evil_, I'd said, when Niamh was baptised. When Declan was, Padraig.

But they were fine, our boys. The sky didn't fall in. People fuck, don't they? It's not the end of the fucking world. Life goes on. And parts of it are dirty, and dark, but as long as no one finds out, no one gets hurt.

Away from that, those were the best years. The best. The boys in school, nursery. Riding bikes, playing football. Taking them to the park. Reading them stories, both together, Dec's fair head and Padraig's dark one. I loved to scare 'em. Make 'em squeak, their eyes massive. Then make it all alright, squeeze 'em tight, kiss 'em goodnight. I loved my days off, cooking them special breakfast while Eileen lay in. Eggs. They liked eggs and soldiers back then. Eileen'd come down, her eyes full of sleep and surprise. I tried to be a good Dad. It was sacred, something I had to fulfil. A gift. Completely separate to the rest of my life, that stayed in the shadows. I had to protect them from that. From all of it. I'd have died rather than let any of that contaminate them.

No kids could have had a prouder father. And I may not have been the greatest husband, but she wanted for nothing, Eileen, I made sure of that. It seemed to be enough.

I ran into a bit of trouble again though. Late twenties. Not that kind of trouble, but the kind that means you've crossed some of the wrong people and you need to go to ground for a bit. The guy who ran the club I'd been working, the one that got busted, knew this fella from London, Danny Houston. Behaved like a fucking Kray brother, so I didn't mess with him. But he had money, and the muscle to back it up, and that's all that counts. He had this other club, in Liverpool. Needed someone with the right contacts to run it. Seemed to think I might fit the bill. I didn't really have much choice.

Leaving the boys was the hardest thing I'd ever done. I'd been away before, but not for long. I promised them I'd be back every few weeks. And I'd ring, in between. Eileen looked at me, like I was abandoning her or something. Didn't want to be left to cope on her own, she said - but she had her sister there, her Mum. She was worried about Declan, she said, he wasn't thriving. I'll send money, I told her. There'd be plenty of it. I gave them a hug, my two heartbeats, told them to look after their Ma for me, and went for the ferry. It was only running a club, in a different city. It's not like anything was really changing.

I took to it straight away, no problems. The place was a total dive, but I had the contacts and Danny had the heavies to make sure the profits from the drugs running through the place stayed with us. There were no outside contractors. I did the hiring and firing. It worked great. Within a few months, we were making a mint. It should have been weird, to be away from everyone I knew, but apart from the boys, it was a relief. I'd known for a long time, for as long as I could remember, that I could only rely on myself. And that was fine. It works best that way. I'd work late, come back to the flat, down a couple of shot, lie awake, looking at the ceiling, and fall asleep, thinking of my kids. Then get up and do it all over, shower, groom, suit, put on the front, get out there. And I'm good with people. Wherever you go, there are the same mugs wanting the same things. And I'm good at persuading people that what I've got is what they wanted in the first place.

A few months in, I hired this lad to work behind the bar. Vinnie. He was Irish, like me, so I guess we had a bond straight away, right there. Came over to go to college, he said, looking at me. Didn't much like it, dropped out and carried on working, he said. He was a slight guy, looked like you could pick him up and throw him, with fair hair. Soft voice. About twenty I think. Actually, I know he was twenty because I remember his birthday. I gave him a free drink from the bar to celebrate.

He was a laugh, actually, Vinnie. Too soft, way too soft, but sharp, funny, when you got to know him. Maybe he was just a bit queer, y'know, effeminate, whatever. I didn't realise it at the time, so it caused a right few laughs among the other guys when they found out. I don't fucking know how it got past me. He didn't hide it, that he was one of those gay guys, and it was tolerated to his face. Even joked about. But Christ, you should have heard some of the fucking things they said behind his back. It made my skin crawl, even while I laughed along with them.

I enjoyed his company though. I took to calling him Vincent, and it made him smile. Something tight, inside me, started to uncurl when he did. Found myself checking the staff rotas, switching them so Vinnie was on when I was. It was just more of a laugh when he was there than when some of the other guys or girls were. And I was a long way from home, and I needed a laugh.

He told me a bit about his life, that day he turned twenty. He was a bit wistful. Drank his drink and said he was off down Stanley Street to find his perfect man for his birthday.

I winced, but tried not to show it. Swirled my whisky around the glass.

"Sounds good," I said. I have no idea why I said it. I meant for him.

He looked at me for a moment. Seemed to pluck up some courage.

"Come, if you want to," he said. He hesitated. "I mean … it'll be a laugh. That's all I meant." He was bright red. But it kind of suited him.

I can't believe he actually had the balls to think I ever would. But it hung there, in the air. I sipped my whisky. I shook my head, slowly.

"Not really my scene," I said.

He looked at me again. "Shame," he said. The air seemed like it was full of all these fucking unspoken words. Like there was a buzz, a hum.

But we were interrupted by Danny.

"All right ladies?" he said. I ignored it, but I felt like knocking him over the head with something heavy and hard. I swallowed it down. Gritted my teeth. Smiled. He turned to Vinnie.

"What's this I hear about it being your birthday?" he asked, that jovial thing he does.

Vinnie looked a bit shy. "Yeah," he said. "I'm off clubbing in a bit. Brendan's given me the night off."

Danny looked at me. Grinned. "Ain't that nice." But there was something dark about it. I could see Vinnie hesitating.

"I can stay if you want, Danny," he said. He sounded like he was genuinely scared to lose his job.

Danny did that thing where he ponders whether to be Mr Nice Guy, or beat someone's brains out. Then he smiled. Reached into his pocket and got out his wallet. Took out some notes and put them into Vinnie's shirt pocket, with a pat. He looked at him. Smiled.

"Have a good time," he said. "On me."

Vinnie looked a bit confused. "Um … thanks. OK. Thanks Mr. Houston."

Danny put a hand on his shoulder. "Danny," he said.

"Er … yeah … OK, Danny. Thanks … Danny," Vinnie stammered. Then looked at me. "I'll be off, then," he said. He sounded a bit wistful again.

"Sure," I said, trying not to look at him. Picking up my glass again. "But if you're late in tomorrow, your wages are getting docked."

He frowned. "Yeah," he said. And picked up his jacket and left.

As he went, and I avoided following him with my eyes, I heard the sound of Danny tutting.

I looked at him. "What?" I asked him.

"Dear me," he said, in that fucking exaggerated way that irritates the fuck out of me. "It's his birthday, Brendan. Give the lad a break. Even puffs have birthdays. So they tell me." He smiled, smug, raised his eyebrows at me, and left me to run the bar.

The next day, Vinnie came in looking tentative. I'd arranged it, so it was just him and me setting up. The others were all coming in later. It only takes two to stock the bar. I knew he was casting glances at me, looking away again. That there was something he wanted to say, and he was gonna say it, but he didn't know how to start. I thought he might need a little push. After a bit, I left him to it, and I went to work in the office. But I left the door open. I waited, listening to the clink of bottles. After a minute or two, they stopped. There was the sound of some quiet steps. Then he appeared at the door.

I looked up at him.

"Did you want something?" I asked him.

"Um …" he shuffled from foot to foot. Ran a hand over his hair. "About last night …"

I came out from behind the desk, and leaned against it.

"Close the door," I said. And he did, unthinking. I smiled. "What about last night? Did you have a good time?"

"Er… yeah," he said. "Yeah, I suppose."

He got a bit closer. I looked straight at him, and watching him almost buckle under my gaze.

"Did you find your perfect man?" I asked him.

He took a breath. "No," he said. "No luck."

I put my head on one side a bit, and kept looking, as he shifted just another step closer, rubbing his hands together. He had these smallish hands, not delicate, but with slender fingers. Strong, though.

"Shame," I said. "Why's that then?"

He was blushing. But I'll give him his due, he met my eye.

"I think maybe …" he started, and then took a breath and started again, "I think maybe I was looking in the wrong place."

I felt something then. Anticipation. And heat. And satisfaction, that he was going to say it, but I'd got him there.

"Where do you think you should be looking then?" I asked him.

He was close, now. I was tempted to reach out a little way, put my hands on his hips, and draw him in, but I resisted, for those last few seconds. He had to get there himself.

He stepped within my reach. "Here," he said. He looked nervous, like his heart was beating out of his body. Or maybe that was my heartbeat I could hear.

It was everything I could do to control my reaction. I let myself reach out, gently so as not to scare him off, and I drew him in between my legs. He looked half surprised, and half turned on.

"No harm in finding out, I guess," I said.

And I let him put his hand on my face, and kiss me.

We had sex. On this crappy sofa in the office. I pushed him over to the door, by the force of my body, and locked it, and then it was like we were richocheting off the walls, and I dragged him down onto that sofa and we had sex. Except he was doing as much dragging as I was. I guess he was really up for it.

The thing is, this wasn't like any of the other times. It was still just sex, don't get me wrong, but there's sex where you're ordering something off the menu just because you're kind of hungry, and you think you should, or because there's something you take a fancy to, like a whim. But I'd never had sex before like I was starving, but I wanted to savour it as well. Where I couldn't wait, but I made myself wait, made myself hold back, just for the taste of it. I'd waited weeks for this, knowing it was going to happen. I wanted it. I enjoyed it. But I also needed it. Every mouthful.

Afterwards, I had a bit of a problem. A good problem, in some ways, but still a problem. I'd never done that before, with someone who I worked with, who was part of my life. It was always separate. But I knew I was gonna want to go there again. And by the smile on his face, after, I knew he wouldn't be complaining if I did. And this was easy, right? Convenient, having someone ready, right there. That's what I told myself as I traced his eyebrow with my thumb, and he smiled, his legs wrapped around me. And his mouth drew me back, pink and soft and curved. His moan when I sucked on his tongue. I'd never much got that before, the kissing. It was just foreplay, the starter. But this was like being drawn to a flame, passing your hand over and over it. It was a risk, a buzz, knowing your hand could end up right in that fire if you didn't keep it moving.

We made it a regular thing. But it didn't take long before it started to get messy. The thing about Vinnie was, he was indiscreet. He was all big blue eyes and secret smiles. And I got edgy, started having to shake him off, push him away, shut down. A bit rough sometimes, cold, hard, and he would look at me, hurt, and I'd have to make it up to him later. He didn't really understand that I was being watched. And that people had not to see, or they'd think I was a frigging faggot too.

When he didn't get the message, I had to get a bit rough with him. He came up behind me one night, snaked his arms around my waist. And I found I had him pinned up against the wall of the office by the throat, and I hadn't even realised I'd done it. Something that had been building inside me, for a while, just came out.

"What is the fucking matter with you?" I heard myself spit, into his face. "Are you fucking brain dead?"

And then I let him go, my hands shaking, and just looked into his face. He was almost crying, and gasping for air. I should have been fucking annoyed with him, for being such a total nancy, but it was like a kick in the guts. I walked away and left him there.

The next couple of days, he steered clear of me. Shrank away when I went near him. And that was better. You'd think I'd be happy, right? That was what I wanted. Mission accomplished. But actually, I felt like shit. No one really wants to be the Big Bad, do they? Do they? But he had to understand, that that was how it was.

I still followed him, at the end of his shift, though. Watched his retreating back, his shoulders hunched, his hands in his pockets, miserable.

"Hey … " I called after him, when we were a safe distance away, "Vinnie … oi …"

I caught up and grabbed his arm. He span around. His face was hostile, and scared. He was scared of me. I wasn't sure how I felt about that. I'd used fear before, plenty. It worked. But this was … he was … just different. I didn't much like the way it was making me feel.

"What do you want, Brendan?" he asked me, and he was shaking, but he stood up to me, I'll give him that.

"Don't be like that," I said to him. "I've given myself a couple of days off." And I'd rejigged the shifts again, so he was off too.

He shrugged, but I could see the interest in his eyes. "So?" he asked me. I could almost feel him softening. Weak, really. But I didn't care. It suited me fine.

"My place is free," I said, waiting. "And it's better than your place." Because we'd always used his place up to now, so I could walk away when I wanted to, and believe me, he could hardly afford heating.

"I dunno," he said, looking torn. "What happens when we get back to work?"

"Work is work," I said. "You know that." I stroked his face.

He sighed. "I don't wanna get hurt," he said. Just like that. Like it was the simplest thing in the world, to say it, that it didn't make him weak. "I'm sick of being hurt."

He looked closer to forty than twenty when he said that. His whole face looked tired, like he was weary of it, the whole thing. I felt a need to make him happy.

"Come back to mine," I said, "and no one gets hurt."

He still hesitated. He had more resistance than I'd given him credit for.

"Do you … d'you even like me, Brendan?" he asked me.

What kind of question was that? Like him? Of course I liked him. I'd spent days and nights in his bed, watching his face as he came to my rhythm, or my mouth buried in his shoulder. Why would he even think I didn't? I hated what he was, his life. What he let me do to him. But I liked him. I liked him a lot.

I stroked my thumb across his chin and his bottom lip, and watched him starting to melt.

"Come back to mine," is all I said.

And eventually, he nodded. "OK," he said. But he sounded almost sad.

I made him forget all about that, the sadness, when we got back to mine. We had forty-eight whole fucking hours with the phones switched off. And most of that was spent in bed, or on the floor, up to my fucking balls in him, or with my mouth wrapped around him. He tasted better than anyone I'd ever tasted before. Sometimes, some guys, I'd hardly wanted to touch. But Vinnie, Vincent, I liked to taste, and smell. And the hair that dusted his arms and legs felt good under my fingers. He slept, with my arm around him, his body warm against mine, his eyelashes fanned out on his cheeks. At the end of the second day, when we knew we had to go back to work, we were lying in the bed. I'd been to get take-out, this amazing place I knew in Chinatown. I left him behind to keep the bed warm. He was still lying there, completely naked, against the pillows, when I got back. He smiled at me. And I liked his smile, his body, his skin smooth and pale, his dick lying between his legs in a fuzz of light brown hair. I knew I was grinning back at him.

"I'm fucking starving, Brendan," he said to me, and reached out for the bag, but I held it out of reach.

"A … ah," I said. And I got out the food, ripped off the lids, and laid them out on the bed while he watched. And then I got the chopsticks, picked up one of the pork balls, and held it out to him. He went for it, tentatively, with his mouth. And I snatched it away, and stuck it in my mouth. He looked at me, shocked.

"Brendan!" he moaned. I laughed.

And I kept it up for the next few minutes. But then his hand flew up and grabbed my wrist, and the food went onto his chest. Bit of sweet and sour I think. We both looked at it. And then I threw aside the chopsticks, and I bent down and ate it off his chest. When I came up for air, his lips were open, and his breathing was shallow.

I worked my way up to his neck, and felt him melting.

"Still hungry?" I asked him, into his skin, as I kissed around the front of his neck, past his Adam's apple, and over to the other side.

"Um …" he said, "not as much as I thought …"

And I laughed, and he started peeling off my clothes, and then we were just body against body again, and I started to get ready to fuck him again, amongst the rumpled sheets and the food cartons. I pushed them out of the way, and heard them land on the floor. I climbed on top of him, felt his legs part, felt his hands in my hair. I kissed him until I ran out of breath, and then I broke away, and went back to his neck. And then he said something.

"I love you."

These words, hung in the air. My body stopped moving. My heart seemed to be racing.

I looked down into his face. "What?"

He looked up at me. Maybe a bit scared. But not so scared that he held back. "I love you," he said. "But it's OK if you don't love me."

I don't know. I really don't know. I've heard a lot of things in my life. I already had, even then. I'd heard people scream and yell and cry and ask for mercy. But that was the saddest thing that I'd ever heard. I felt it run through my whole body. I just wanted to cover him, protect him, make it that he wasn't hurting any more, didn't feel like that any more.

I did what I could. I kissed him, because that normally makes it better. His mouth seemed sad, and sweet. And I buried myself in him, made him forget about it for a while.

The next day, I dropped him at his place, watched him go into the building, with a last look back at me, and drove in to work alone. I went to see Danny.

"I need to go home," I told him. "I don't wanna leave you in the lurch, but I have to get back."

He raised his eyebrows at me. "When?"

"Now. Soon. Soon as I can."

He sat back, clicked his tongue against his teeth. "What's brought this on, Brendan?" He seemed more intrigued than like he gave a damn. Mild inconvenience, maybe. Suddenly, he looked smug. "Not staffing problems, I hope?" He pursed his lips.

"Declan … he … Eileen's worried about Declan. She's not coping." I looked him square in the eye. Held my nerve. Shut everything down. "My family have to come first."

The smirk that made me want to ram his teeth down his throat faded. He nodded, narrowing his eyes. "Too right. A man has to look after his family. Family's important."

Strange. I knew he had none. None that I knew of. No brother, sister, wife.

He got up, suddenly, and went to the safe. Pulled out a wad of notes, neatly banded. Held it out.

"I always see my guys right, Brendan," he said. His face was inscrutable.

There must've been a couple of grand. It wouldn't last long, with the kids, but it'd tide us over. I only knew I didn't want to take it. It was loyalty money. And I didn't want to be tied to him.

"For the boys, Brendan," he said, his eyes hooded, his voice level, but with something implied.

My gut tightened, for a second, but I couldn't read him. I took it, nodding. "Thanks." I got up.

I should have walked straight out of there. Straight out and got back in the car and driven down to the port, and gone for good. But I opened my mouth. Not like me, that.

"About Vinnie," I said, every muscle in my body rigid. "I'd keep him on. He's all right."

A smile spread very slowly across his face. "Don't worry about Vinnie," he said. "I'll look after him."

My stomach churned. I set my face, harder. "He's a good lad."

"Sure," Danny said, still smiling. Then he stood up and held out his hand. I shook it, gripping it hard. And walked out.

"Don't be a stranger, Brendan," I think I heard him say, as I was leaving.

If I could just have gone straight for the ferry, it would've been OK. But I had to go back to my place, collect my stuff. I remember shoving the remains of the Chinese meal into the bin. I even washed cups, glasses. I didn't want anyone to know there'd been more than just me in that flat that weekend. While I was there, my phone started buzzing. I diverted. I'd be gone in an hour.

But he was there, waiting, when I came out of the flat. I knew I damn well never should have taken him there. Vinnie. Who the fuck would have told him that I was leaving?

"Brendan …"

I walked towards the car, unlocking.

"Don't … don't go." He sounded upset. I didn't look. I didn't want to see his face. Not now.

I threw my bag into the boot of the car. "I have a family, Vinnie. A wife."

"No, don't …"

The boot slammed shut under my hand.

"No, Brendan …"

I frowned, still looking down at the boot. "What did you think was gonna happen here?" I looked at his face, then. "I'm not like you." I felt very little for him, right then, if I'm honest. Except something dull, right in the middle of me. Something locked down.

He looked at me, a bit confused. "Not like me? How?"

I scanned his face. Attractive. Male. But not really a man. You couldn't really be a man and look like that. "Not … like that. Not … gay." Maybe the word came out sounding harder than I meant.

There was a moment, as his lips opened. Like he'd taken an intake of breath. A new expression spread over his face. Disbelief. Scorn. For all he was so young, so hopeful. "Not gay?" he said. Suddenly, he looked so tired. There were tears in his eyes but his anger seemed to stop them falling. His face contorted, suddenly. "Didn't stop you putting your dick in my arse, did it?"

I didn't really mean to do it. It happened before I knew it. I smacked him hard in the ribs and sent him reeling against the wall of the building.

I think I hit him pretty hard. He was keening, crumpled. I was standing away, leaning against the car, breathing heavily. My hand was hurting. I had to do it. But I felt sorry. I'd been with him for months. Not with him. Around him. I … cared a lot about him. The red mist seemed to be starting to fade from in front of my eyes. I wiped them. I don't even know why.

I hesitated. Then went over there. He cowered for a second. I hated that, that he was scared of me. If he'd only let me leave, I wouldn't have had to do it. And then I helped him up, putting an arm around my shoulder. There was blood on his lip, I noticed. Maybe he bit it on the way down. I'd bitten him once, on the lip, during sex. He had such a great mouth. He'd cried out, and then wrapped himself around me, more tightly than before.

"Where are we going?" he said to me now, sounding winded, vulnerable.

"Hospital," I said.

I put him in the car and took him to the nearest A&E. I sat in the waiting area on a chair while the nurse took a look at him. My knee twitched, and I rested my hand on it to stop it moving. I hate hospitals. They remind me of things I've spent my life forgetting. Then she came back for me.

"He's a bit banged up," she said to me. "But he'll live. We're just going to run a few tests. Don't suppose you know anything about it, do you?"

"I found him like that," I said.

"A friend of yours?" she asked me.

I winced. "In a manner of speaking," I said.

"Do you want to see him?" she asked me, her eyebrows raised in expectation.

"No," I said. "I'll let you get to work."

She nodded and headed back through the doors to the cubicles. I watched the doors swing shut. Then I got up, and walked out. Picked up the car, and drove to the docks.

On the ferry, I got out my phone. I rang Eileen, told her I was on my way back. She sounded surprised. I told her I'd explain when I got there, and rang off. Then I scrolled through the numbers, to Vinnie's. I deleted him.

I didn't exactly get the overjoyed welcome home I'd been expecting, if I'm honest. I hadn't rung as often as I should have, I knew that. Or gone home as often as I'd promised. Life had got … complicated. I'd sent the cash though. I thought she'd have been happy with that. But a year's a long time, I guess. Specially in a child's life. They all seemed like they'd moved on a bit, in that year. It took time, to find my way back to what I'd had. Maybe I never did, completely. Maybe that's what did for us in the end, that time apart.

I wish I could say that was the end of it. But we don't all get the chance to put things right. A few months later, something arrived in the post. A _Liverpool Echo_. No explanation, no note. I took it out of the envelope and smoothed it out on the table, where I'd put my coffee. It was turned open at an article on page four. Something about a car crash. A young man, found behind the wheel of a car, at night, in a ditch. Police looking for witnesses, it said. Road had been damp, it said, slippery, but no unusual circumstances. He'd been killed outright, before they even got to him.

Vinnie.

I sat there for a long time. It was like everything had stopped. Strange. I'd found him easy to forget, at first. But now he was dead, it was like he was in front of me. I could hear him laughing. I could feel his arms round my neck. The grip of his legs. The feel of his hip bones in my hands. His voice.

_I love you. But it's OK if you don't love me._

His eyes, looking up at me. I imagined his eyes, blue, blank, dead. I felt sick in the pit of my stomach.

I don't think I moved until Eileen got back. I don't even know how long that was. Hours. Weeks. As she brought shopping into the kitchen, talking, I stood up, stiff. Put the paper back in the envelope, and walked out.

I hadn't even known Vinnie could drive.


	4. Chapter 4

**Trouble**

**Part 4**

It was after I got back, some time that year, that Declan started to worsen. I didn't think much of it at the start, that suddenly he didn't like sports, left his brand new bike in the garage. He'd been coming off, Eileen said, got some nasty cuts and grazes. I had other things on my mind. And he sure as hell didn't talk to us about it, he was clammed up silent, but I just thought, he's pre-teen, he's changing schools, that's how it goes. It was Eileen who went on about finding bruises on him, hidden under his clothes. The school had called her in for a chat. Afterwards, she practically had to beg before he'd shown her. I thought they were crazy. There's not a boy in the world doesn't carry bruises. I sure as hell did. But this was different, Eileen said. He must have fallen. Or been pushed. Or hurt himself, somehow. Not sure I really wanted to think about that one. Didn't compute. Our kids were loved, right? They knew that. Why wouldn't they love themselves?

We started working through it. Was he being bullied? Did he just need to toughen up? I wanted to teach him to fight. Eileen hated the idea. So did he, apparently. I took him down to the gym with me, once, and he just sat and looked around him like he wanted to die. Big, puppy eyes. I didn't push it. No son of mine'd be forced if he didn't want to. He had a brain. He'd learn to use that instead.

It was the start of a round of doctors, tests. None of them took it seriously. He was just clumsy. Growing pains. Dyspraxic, one of them said, whatever the fuck that is. They thought we were pushy. Or worse. They looked at me strangely a few times. I could guess what they were thinking. So we'd just walk out, move on, find another. If they thought I'd ever touch a hair on him, they'd have to be insane.

He told us to leave it, that he was fine. He didn't want to be different, special. He'd find a way. He's a brave kid, my Declan. But it gave us something to focus on, anyway. Brought us closer together, me and Eileen. Ironic. Because we sure as hell weren't all that tight when I got back.

"Are you sleeping with other women, Brendan?" she asked me, looking me in the eye and banging a dish down on the table, after I'd told her to spit it out, whatever she was narky about. Because it had been going on for weeks after I got back, the distance, the moods, and I couldn't take it anymore. She was angry, I got that. I'd gone away, it had been tough for both of us. But I could tell from the look in her eyes that it was taking her a lot not to cry, and to ask that question.

"No," I said. "No! Why would you even think that?"

"Because you …" she struggled with the words. "You're different. You seem miles away, Brendan. You don't feel like … my husband. Not in any way." Bam, a knockout blow. I knew what that meant. Suddenly, she was angry again. Defence mechanism, I guess. "And it's what you guys do, isn't it? I get that. I wasn't born yesterday. We've been apart a while."

I took her by the shoulders. "I have never slept with another woman since you," I told her, looking into her eyes.

For a moment, she looked disbelieving. "You expect me to …"

"Eileen," I said, cutting her off. "This … this matters to me. You and me. Marriage. I take this seriously. I made a vow. You're my wife. There is no other woman."

I must have sounded convincing. And I could see she wanted to be convinced. It felt like this wall between us started to dissolve a bit. And I wasn't lying. About any of it. I'd found ways around those vows, sure. But they were in a different life.

"It's just …" she started, looked down, then looked back up, her jaw set. "I don't want to have to do this on my own, Brendan. But if I have to, then I will. Just … be honest with me."

She seemed harder than I'd ever seen her, then. Maybe the year had changed her as well. I didn't much like it. I pulled her into a hug, though. Kissed her hair. "You don't have to do this on your own."

I took her to bed, after. She needed it, for reassurance. It seemed to put us back on track. I didn't really feel like that for her, anymore. I think she needed the closeness, more than anything, but I don't get that from sex. Different for women, I guess.

So there was Declan, worrying us senseless. And there was Eileen, angry with me, needing me. And then there was Macca. Macca, Macca, Macca.

I hadn't let anyone get close to me since the thing in Liverpool. Just that once, I let my guard down and almost took a knock-out blow. Fingers well and truly burnt. The idea that Danny might know … that Eileen might. No. Could never happen. I went back to mostly temporary hook-ups. Strictly business. They knew what they were getting. So did I. It was easier. A few times, I stayed in touch. You never knew when someone might be able to do you a favour. I was surprised, how useful some guys could be to me. And a few times, staying in touch turned into something longer. When you'd put the time into making it happen, it seemed a shame to drop it straight away. But I was always out of there sharpish when it started to get messy.

Macca was different. Macca was in the box marked untouchable, from the off. Family. Eileen's family. There are rules. But then, I've always had a tendency to break rules.

I'd seen him around, time to time, at family do's that did my head in. Eileen's sister's boy. Cocky little bastard, even then. Good craic, though. As close in age to Eileen as Eileen was to that sister of hers, ten years older. When he was sixteen, he did some babysitting for us. The boys loved him, and he was good with them, let them crawl all over him, wrestled them both at the same time, made them scream with laughter. They looked up to him I guess, like a role model, though he was just in college himself. He had a smart mouth on him, I'll give you that. He'd look up at me from the sofa once he was installed there, happy as larry in my house, and he'd cock an eyebrow. "All right, Uncle Brendan?" he'd say to me, taking the piss, because there was less than ten years between us. I sometimes thought he was asking for a slap. Liked him, though, Macca. Don't even know why.

Then he drifted out of the picture. We knew he was giving his Ma and Da grief. Didn't know what he wanted to do after college. Got a job in some butcher's, we heard, but stayed living at home. And in his own time, bit of money in his pocket … yeah, a bit wild. He was out all hours, we heard. Clubbing, drinking. Got up to all sorts. Maybe some of them recreationally a bit illegal. Eileen told me a few times he was driving them to distraction. I nodded. He should have honoured his parents, sure. But secretly, I smiled. He was having fun. What else is a kid like him to do? The town was too small for him. I knew that feeling. And I remembered that cocked eyebrow, the sarcastic wit. He'd know when enough was enough, when to call it.

Except I guess he didn't. Next I knew, Eileen was starting one of those conversations that you just know is heading somewhere you really don't want to go.

"Brendan …"

There'd been some kind of row, at home. Sean had chucked him out on his ear. He had nowhere to go, apparently. Eileen was thinking he could stop in our spare room. Just for a few weeks. I rolled my eyes. Who needs some wild kid landing on you when life's complicated enough? But I had no reason to say no. A few weeks, I said. No more. And I knew the boys would love it. Might take Declan's mind off his troubles, at least.

"It'll be fine," she said. "You'll see."

So I came down one morning after a late shift in the club to find my wife's nephew installed at the breakfast table. I hadn't seen him for a good couple of years, maybe more. He was hardly a kid, now. Twenty, thereabouts. He looked up at me. For a second, he just seemed to take me in. I thought he might have his tail between his legs, getting chucked out of home like that. But then there was a smile slapped right across his face.

"All right, Uncle Brendan?" he said, a tease in his voice somewhere. And he took a massive bite out of some toast and jam. My toast, my jam. But still.

I probably grunted. It's what I do when I'm less than impressed. Eileen was on her way out to school with the kids.

"You two'll be all right together, won't ye?" she said. "I've got to run."

"I expect we'll manage," Macca said to her. Looked back at me, eyebrows raised.

I smiled. "No worries, yeah," I said, looking from him to her, and back to him.

"Good," she said, sounding amused herself. Came up and gave me a kiss on the cheek. "Be nice to him, Brendan," she said, soft, into my ear.

I looked at her. "I'm always nice," I said.

Her eyebrows raised, quizzical. Her lips pursed. "Course ye are," she said. And picked up her bag and shepherded the boys out of the door, leaving the two of us together.

I poured myself coffee, and lifted it to my mouth. It tasted dark, and mellow.

"So, Bren," he said, smiling.

"So, Macca," I said, looking him up and down.

"Still got the tache, then," he said, grinning.

"It's a family tradition," I said.

"Is that what it is," he said. And smiled, again. And supped his tea.

"You going to tell us what this row was about, then?" I said to him, taking the conversation back to him.

His smile faded. He frowned, and looked down at his cup. Blew on it, sent ripples across the top. "Something and nothing."

"Can't be both now, can it?" I asked him.

He sighed. Looked up. "Dad thinks it's something. I don't."

I felt for him, in a way. But I kept up my guard. "Don't be thinking you can diss Sean in this house, Macca. He's a good bloke." I didn't think that actually, I thought he was a self-righteous prick, but he was family, and there was a principle at stake.

He looked up at me. "Big on paternal respect, are ye?" Something in his eyes.

"It does no harm," I said, meeting his gaze.

He nodded, thoughtful. "I won't get in your way," he said, suddenly, seeming tired. Shrugging.

I put down my coffee. "What makes you think you're in my way?" I asked him. I wandered over, close, looked down at him for a moment. Then took a piece of toast off his plate, and headed for the door. I knew his eyes were following me, curious. I turned at the door. "Just try to stay out of trouble, yeah?"

He laughed. "Sure. Where ye going?"

I grinned at him. "To work up a sweat," I said, taking a bite of the toast. And walked out of the door and set off for the gym, leaving him dangling. But I swear, he was smiling. And it seemed like life got just a little more interesting. Like I said, good kid.

Couple of nights later, he wrong-footed us. Eileen was just heading for the kitchen to stack the dishwasher after making tea for the boys, when he jumped off the sofa, leaving them in front of the TV, and headed her off at the pass.

"Leave that," he said. "I'll sort it. You need a break."

She stood back, surprised, and let him. "What's brought this on?" She was laughing.

He shrugged. "I owe you. Both of yous." He looked at me. "And I thought you two might want some time alone together, so I'll sit the kids tonight."

There was a silence for a moment. Eileen seemed amazed. I looked at him. "Time alone?" I asked him. What the fuck was he talking about? That wasn't really how Eileen and I rolled, after over ten years of marriage.

"Yeah," he said, "y'know, to go out." He looked from one of us to another. "As a couple." I locked eyes with Eileen. I'm relieved to say that the panic in her eyes was almost as strong as in mine. But she looked a little bit more hopeful. "Least I can do, really," Macca was going on, stacking dishes into the washer. "It'll be like old times. Go to the pictures or something."

Suddenly he turned his head over his shoulder, and looked me right in the eye. A challenge.

"Right," I said. "Right … yeah." I looked at Eileen.

"Ok," she shrugged. "Just let me …" she gestured vaguely up the stairs, and wandered off to tidy up, or whatever women do, casting me a shocked but amused look as she passed.

"Not forgotten how to do that, have you Brendan?" Macca asked me, raising an eyebrow. "Take out your wife?"

"No," I said, and met his look. He was a mysterious one, and no mistake.

"And the boys'll be all right with me tonight, won't ye lads?" Macca carried on, calling over to them on the sofa. "I owe ya payback on the Wii after last night." And the chorus of cheers that came back from the sofa spoke plain that they were happy enough. Even Declan, and it was a miracle to get a grunt out of him those days. But I don't know why I got the impression that this was some kind of test. When Eileen emerged, he was all over her.

"You look great, Eileen. Doesn't she, Bren?" he asked, as I grunted, and the two of us headed slightly awkwardly out of the door.

As it happened, we could barely even agree on what to watch. I compromised for the sake of peace, and sat through some terrible movie she wanted to see, and waited for time to pass. For some reason, all I could think of was that little fucker, trying to organise our lives, that were fine as they were. And it bugged the hell out of me. Afterwards, she accused me of fidgeting all the way through. We went straight home. Put on a bit of a show in front of Macca, and headed for bed. To sleep.

It was through talk at work that I started to feel my way through it.

"What's this I been hearing about your Macca?" this guy said to me, one day. "Been hearing he's been hanging round all kinds of places."

"Oh yeah? What kind of places? Exactly?"

"Faggy kind, was what I heard."

There are times, when you have to stop and reevaluate. This was one of those times.

"No," I said. "I'd know. And if I hear anyone repeating that back, their teeth'll be coming out their arse." I looked the fella in the eye. Held him there.

"I'm only saying what I heard."

"Well, you heard wrong."

That was usually enough to keep a lid on things. But that night, I watched him, Macca. He came in from work, went up for a shower. Came down again, fresh, smelling … clean. Helped Eileen sort the tea for the boys. Made em laugh, through tea. Helped clear up, after. The perfect guest. Except I sometimes thought he was looking at me. Maybe not even with his eyes, maybe he was just sort of turned towards me, attentive. Tuned in to me. It felt dangerous. It was the time you need to be sure, before you show your own hand.

After dinner, I went to our room. Went for a bit of cologne. Checked I had everything I needed. Or might need. Took a last look at myself in the mirror. Yeah. That other me was looking back. The one who sometimes came out to play. I knew I was crossing a line, here. But it would probably come to nothing. I opened a stick of gum and folded it into my mouth. Pulled on my jacket, and turned away from the refection. Took the stairs at a run. Eileen and Macca were on the sofa with the boys, watching TV.

"Where are you off out?" she asked me, surprised.

"Poker night," I told her. "Owen's." I rifled through my wallet, as if it was the most natural thing. "I told you."

"You didn't," she said.

"I did," I told her. "It's poker night. Tuesdays. Poker. Owen's."

"You haven't played poker with Owen for months," she said.

I shrugged. "Bumped into him. Sounded like a good night." I dropped a kiss on the top of her hair and headed for the door. At the last minute, I turned.

"Play poker, Macca?"

"Me?" he asked, surprised. "Yeah, sometimes."

"Wanna come?"

He looked at Eileen, then, doubtful, as if he needed her approval. She rolled her eyes. "Oh, go on then. Me and the boys will be fine. I can always ring your Mum later for some company."

"OK … thanks Eileen," he said, and jumped up, grabbing his jacket. I pulled open the door, and let him go past. He flashed me a half smile. I may have grinned back.

"Don't wait up," I said to Eileen, and closed the door behind me.

I took him to a pub, off our usual patch. Nothing strange about that. Got in the drinks. Chatted about nothing. The boys. What he was up to these days. Feeling my way. Careful. Watched him, as he drank, talked, laughed, shrugged. He was nothing like Vinnie. Nothing. Vinnie had been … I don't know. You don't call a bloke beautiful, do you? But there had been something about him. He was all yellow hair that you could knot your fingers in, and blue eyes and fair skin, with this blush on it, or he had this blush on it when he knew I was looking at him, and he had this great neck, shoulders. Tallish as well, not tall like me, but not short, and slender. He looked like he could be hurt, and it made you not want to. Macca was different. Small. Fine light brown hair. Hazel eyes. Not bad, but not someone you'd pick out of a line. But he was all sarcastic tongue, and fighting talk, fighting spirit, like some little bruiser. He looked tough, even at his age, like he couldn't be hurt. And it almost … made you want to. In a way.

I left it thirty, forty minutes, in the end. Almost an hour. We were talking, it was fine. I went for a glance at the watch. Another five minutes. Then excused myself, said I'd give the other fellas a call. Took my phone outside. Came back. Snapped my phone shut. He looked up at me.

"Problem?"

"Yeah," I said, shaking my head, "they've let me down. Owen's had to cancel." I looked at him. He was tricky to read, but he looked a bit disappointed.

"Right," he said, taking a swig of his beer, "you want to head back?" He looked at me, expectant. I hesitated. Or seemed to.

"Seems a shame not to make a night of it," I said, "seeing as Eileen's OK with the kids." I raised my eyebrows. "You up for it?"

He looked just a bit confused. Undecided. Looked at me. Then smiled. Shrugged. "Sure," he said.

I grinned. "I'll get the drinks in," I said, and went back to the bar, the buzz of something beginning in my belly. A sharpness, that seemed to make all my senses that bit more intense.

I bought pints with chasers. Put them in front of him. He laughed.

"Are you trying to get me drunk, Uncle Brendan?" he asked, his voice arch, and his eyebrows the same. "What would Eileen say?"

I looked away for a moment, at that. Cleared my throat. Looked back. Smiled. "What Eileen doesn't know, doesn't hurt her." I grinned again, to break the tension. "Now get it down you, boy. It'll put hairs on your chest."

We clinked glasses, and I watched his Adam's apple bounce as he started to down the whiskey.

Then I started to steer the conversation. To take control.

"So, if we went on to a club … would I be getting you into trouble anyone?" I asked him, half smiling, keeping my expression guarded.

He shook his head. "Nope," he said. "If you're asking what I think you're asking."

I shrugged then. Keep it casual. "Well, play your cards right, by the end of the night, you could be hooked up with a gorgeous girl."

He held my gaze for a moment. He could play guarded pretty damn well himself. Then he almost sighed. "Yeah. Dad'd love that." He stopped.

"Yeah?" I asked him, leaning in a little, my elbows resting on my thighs, my hands between my legs.

He hesitated again. "Yeah," he said. "He'd love me to get a girlfriend."

"You've had plenty of girlfriends, what I heard," I said to him. I knew he'd had no problem in that department. Or hadn't seemed to.

"Sure," he said, looking awkward.

"So, what's the problem?" I asked him, watching him drink, knowing he was probably drinking just that bit too fast for him. Maybe he was nervous.

For a moment, he played with the glass on the table top. Then he took another swallow, and looked at me.

"I don't think that's really me," he said.

There was a pause, while we both let that register. Then I pursed my lips.

"And that's what you told Sean, is it?" My own voice, smooth, low, inviting confidence.

Suddenly, he seemed to make a decision. He looked up from his drink on the table, and looked me in the eye. "I told him I thought I might be gay." His voice was quiet, but clear enough to me.

The words hung there. I let a silence form. Just long enough to unsettle him.

"You're confused," I said, eventually, holding his eye contact. "You don't know what you want."

He laughed, dry. Shook his head. "You sound like my Dad," he said. "Except a bit less insanely homophobic." He pulled a face. I could tell he was hurting, in there somewhere. Behind the front.

"I'm not your Dad," I said, holding his gaze.

"No," he said. "No, you're not."

Suddenly, I knocked back my whiskey. "So, are we hitting this club, then?" I asked him.

He looked surprised. As if he was making mental calculations. "I didn't think you'd want to, after …"

I interrupted him. "I've known you almost your whole life, Macca. I don't know what's going on in your head right now. But I don't break with family over something stupid like this. Now get that down you and we'll get out of here."

He seemed part surprise, part bafflement, and part pleased. He frowned, for a second. Then laughed. "Why the hell not?" he said, and flashed me a smile as he picked up his glass and downed the rest, screwing up his eyes and laughing a bit.

It was a good night. It became a game. I'd point out some woman – what about her? And he'd shrug, and pull a face. "Yeah … maybe," he'd say, with a flash of his eyes at me that told me way more than he probably meant to. I chatted up a couple of girls at the bar, bought them drinks, knowing he was watching. Got a number. Came back to the table, slipping the number into my pocket. His eyes were wide, his face wary. Jealous, maybe?

"I shouldn't be seeing this," he said, sounding unsettled but half amused.

"I'm not gonna use it, idiot," I told him. I sat down again, looked him square in the face, at close quarters. "I don't do that to Eileen."

"So …?"

"You can use it, if you want." I slid the number across to him. "Tell her you were with me. And you thought she was gorgeous."

He looked down at the number, and then back up at my face. "Nice try, Brendan. But I ain't biting." I smiled.

Suddenly, he knocked back his drink and made to get up. "I'm going out for a smoke," he said. "Want one?"

It brought back some memories. But I'd changed. "No," I said. "I don't. I'll come out for some air though." I grabbed my bottle and followed him out through the doors into the night air.

We found a quiet corner. Dark. Unseen. I watched as he sucked on his fag and blew the smoke up into the air. He seemed twitchy, nervous. Like there was something on his mind. He looked at me, every so often.

"So you're serious, then," I said to him. "About this … gay thing."

He shrugged again, looked evasive.

"What makes you think y'are?"

That made him look back at me. Which was what I wanted.

"What do _you_ think?" he asked me.

It was my turn to shrug. "How should I know? People … experiment. So I'm told."

"Did you ever _experiment_, Uncle Brendan?" Again, that sarcasm in his voice.

I looked at him. "I know what I am."

He seemed unhappy at that. "Lucky you," he said. He took a drag on his fag. Looked down at his shoes. "I've tried a few things."

I decided we needed to move this thing on. "Have you …?"

He looked back at me, then. Shook his head. "You don't need that to know, though."

A strong feeling flooded through my body, right then. He hadn't. Not with anyone. Not that far. Suddenly the beer tasted crisper, stronger, more sour. That was the moment I knew I'd have him, family or not. The idea of being the first. Yeah. That was a turn on I couldn't walk away from.

"What have you done, then?" I asked him.

He looked at me, long and interested. He sauntered a few steps closer. "Why do you need to know?"

I shrugged. "I don't."

"Just curious, eh?" he asked me, his face seeming very close to mine.

"I'm a curious kind of guy," I said.

"You got that right," he said to me. I was looking right at his mouth now. "Really want to know?" he asked me.

"Yeah," I said, so low that only he could hear.

That was when I felt his hand on my neck. And he pulled me down into a kiss. Long, and slow, his tongue running along mine, the taste of tobacco. I let him lead. I didn't need to do a damn thing else. Not yet, anyway.

When he broke away, he was breathing heavily. His hand dropped from my neck. He shook his head, slightly, as if he couldn't completely believe what was happening. "I'm drunk," he said, frowning and withdrawing slightly.

"You won't remember anything in the morning then, will you?" I said to him. Reached out and grabbed his arm, roughly, and pulled him back in for another kiss.


	5. Chapter 5

****_Big thankyou to the handful of people who've stuck with this and are still reading - thanks for the lovely comments. Here's another slice, if you're still out there. _

**Trouble**

**Part 5**

What I'll say is, kissing wasn't all he'd done. I took him to a hotel. Booked two rooms, just as cover, because this was closer to home than I was used to. Only used one. And used it well. He was breathless, wide-eyed, but he was up for it. He was smiling, as we went up in the lift. There was no time for smiling once we got where we were heading.

It was full-on, from the start. It was almost strange, to feel his body pressed up against mine. This was different, right? I'd watched him grow up. But at the same time, a familiar buzz, drowning out every other voice in my head. He was wiry. Promising. God, it had been a while. I wasn't gonna rush him, but he had his hand down my pants before I had a chance to do a damn thing, and then he was on his knees, so I guessed he'd taken this a lot further than holding hands. Christ, his mouth, sucking away down there. He wasn't expert, but he had a natural talent for it, I'll give him that, and it was everything I could do not to just come in his mouth right there. The way he was looking up at me, like he was daring me to stop him. But I like a dare. I put my hand in his hair and yanked it away. It took some control.

"Want to play a new game?" I asked him.

I watched his eyes widen. He ran his tongue over his wet lips. Then he just nodded. "OK," he said.

"Sure?" I asked him, loosening my grip in his hair, stroking the back of his head more gently.

He nodded, again. I slowed it down a bit, then. Pulled and pushed him out of his clothes. Had him down on the bed and showed him how touching and sucking was really done, just to get him started off, while he arched and whimpered. Then rolled him on to his front, pulled up his hips, and shoved a pillow under. I remember biting and nipping into his shoulder, listening to him moan as I got him ready with one finger, more. Thinking how bloody pale his skin was, paler than mine, like you could shine a light through it. How male he smelt. And then rubbering up, and getting into position, and starting to push home. Real slow. Hearing him wince, flinch, cry out a bit. Pulling out, taking a bit longer to touch and pump until he was moaning, and then going for it. In spite of the cries. Maybe they were a turn on. Cos he could have stopped me, any time. He didn't though. And then hearing the sounds change.

_Oh fuck … oh FUCK …_

And feeling my lips fall back from my teeth. A smile. And then taking my pleasure. And Christ, there was pleasure. He was tight. And he wanted it. And he was completely mine. I didn't belong to him, in any way. But he belonged to me. No one else had been there. The inside of my whole head was dark with satisfaction. He gave himself to me. And I just took him. I could walk away. Any. Time. I. Wanted. Any … oh fuck …

Afterwards, when my body was awash with the feeling of muscles relaxing, coming down, I pulled out, careful, but still hearing him grunt. He rolled onto his back, slowly. He looked a bit stunned, panting. Took a deep breath.

"Bloody hell," he said.

I cleaned up, and chucked the condom aside into the bin. Came to lie on my back beside him. I didn't much want to touch him. But I didn't mind lying beside him. He turned his head to look at me.

"What happens now?" he asked me.

I stared at the ceiling.

"We get some sleep," I said to him. "It's late."

"OK," he said, almost docile.

I let him reach out and put a hand on my chest. Just that. I didn't mind that. It lay there, while my breathing rose and fell. I knew he was still looking at me, probably getting his head round what just happened. I remember thinking that I should make sure to see him in the day in future, so I could walk away when I needed to. And I knew there would be times in the future. It was just too good to turn down. But I had to minimize the risk, and nights were risky. Not because of Eileen, I'd already texted her to say we were crashing at Owen's. Because they raised expectations.

"What about tomorrow?" he asked me.

Fuck, there ye go. Always tomorrow. Expectations. Told you.

"Get some sleep," I told him, and closed my eyes.

In the morning, I woke early, got up first. Dressed, quiet, pulling up my trousers, belting up. My eyes scanned his body, sleeping, as I did. He was lost to the world, but he looked anything but innocent, lying there sprawled, his legs parted. It gave me a chance to assess the situation. I'd been there. I just fucked my wife's nephew. This was new territory, and I needed a strategy for it. As I pulled on my jacket he stirred, screwing up his face. Then he registered me, looking down at him. His expression changed as the previous night came back to him. He bit his lip.

"Where ye going?" he asked me. He sounded groggy. But then we'd been caning it the night before. Or he had. I'd made sure of that.

"Home," I said, keeping it short, to the point, continuing to dress, picking up my watch from the bedside, clasping it around my wrist.

"Hold on then," he said, sitting up in bed, his upper body pale but muscular, his spine curved, bringing back some memories of the previous night, "I'll come with ye."

"No," I said, getting out my wallet, looking inside for some notes. I held a wad out to him. "Take a shower. Settle the bill. Go straight to work."

"But …" he started.

"We'll talk tonight," I said to him.

He opened his mouth to speak again, but I didn't stick around to hear it. I knew what the words would be anyway. Can I see you again? As in, will you fuck me again? And only I got to decide that. Whatever we did, it was going to be on my terms, or no one's.

Eileen was there when I got back. We had the "look what the cat's dragged in," conversation, her standing there, one hand on a hip. She looked unimpressed.

"And what did you do with Macca?" she asked me, her eyebrows arching with displeasure.

"He's gone straight to work. Bit worse for wear," I told her, avoiding her eyes.

"I'm starting to think you twos are a bad influence on each other," she said.

"Give it a rest," I muttered. "It was only one night." And I headed straight upstairs for the bathroom, to shower the smell of him from my body, wash it away. Take back the control.

When he got in, that night, he came through the door looking sheepish, uncertain. Was looking for my eye contact. I took it, held it, dropped it as Eileen picked up with the questions, more joking this time.

"What the hell did Brendan get you into last night?" she asked him. Fuck, she even ruffled his hair. He flinched away, laughing, uneasy.

"Don't blame Brendan," he said. "Takes two to tango, and all that." He was looking for my eye contact again. I blanked him, but grunted assent. He looked back at her, instead. "Heavy night though," he said, more softly. Something in his voice, that he wanted me to hear. But she thought it was aimed at her.

"I'll make you a cuppa," she said, and turned to the kettle. He looked at me, then. Something in his face. Something knowing. And known. He at least had the grace to look shifty when she turned back with the mug.

We actually ate together, unbelievably. I just shovelled it in, listening to her talking about Declan and Paddy, who were at a mate's, nodding, asking questions in return.

Eventually, I stood up, shrugged on my jacket, to get ready to go to the club for the evening shift. I felt him watching me as I did.

"Need a word with you," I said. "Walk out with me."

His eyes lit up, but wary. "Sure," he said, and followed me out of the door, leaving Eileen with the remains of the dinner, looking slightly surprised.

He followed me over to the car. And then I turned, looked down at him. It had to be sorted. Dealt with. His hand came out, almost involuntary, touched the lapel of my jacket. Looked up at me, eyebrows raised.

"So … what are we gonna do?" he asked me.

I put my hand over his, and removed it from my jacket. Dropped it.

"You move out," I said.

There was a pause, his face surprised, as he took this in.

"I don't want to move out," he said.

I felt irritation flicker at me. Why do they always have to make things difficult?

"I don't care what you want," I said. "This is my home. Mine, and Eileen's. Mine, and my wife's, and my children's."

He looked around. "I haven't got enough money to move out," he said, sounding confused. Looked back at me. "If I did, I'd never have landed here in the first place."

I'd expected it. I got out my wallet again, took out another wad of notes. I took hold of his wrist and gripped it, probably a bit harder than I needed to. Then turned his hand over, pushed the money into his palm, and held it there.

"Deposit and first month's rent," I said to him.

He looked down at it, in amazement. "Brendan …"

"You've got until the end of the week," I told him. Unlocked the car. Then turned again. "Find somewhere quiet," I said. We exchanged a glance. He looked disconcerted. Then I got into the car and drove off.

I won't deny I avoided him, the rest of that week. I took extra shifts. I even went out of town on business, to see a supplier. When I got back, it seemed like it was mission accomplished.

"Hey, you won't believe this," Eileen said to me, "Macca's moving out."

"Is he?" I asked, feigning complete indifference.

She actually looked at me curiously, at that. "I thought you'd be more surprised," she said.

I shrugged. "He's been here long enough, don't ye think?" I asked her.

She shrugged, then, and sighed. "Maybe. But he couldn't afford a place before. Now all of a sudden he can."

I flicked on the kettle. I could see my face, reflected in the chrome, distorted. "Maybe he came into some good luck," I told her.

"I guess," she said, pulling a face. "Will ye drive him over there?" she asked me. "He's moving his stuff on Sunday."

"Sure," I said. And felt a sense of expectation. Of something starting.

In the car, as we drove over, there was a tension, building. Not much said. I knew he was smiling. He had this smirk, when he knew what was coming. We carried up a few bags. It was a flat, in a terrace. Second floor. He looked around him. Chucked the duvet down on the bed and turned to me.

"So," he said.

"So."

So I fucked him on the bed of that flat, surrounded by his crap in boxes and bags, before he could even unpack, and god knows, he hardly owned a thing. Less gentle than before. Harder. Wanted to know how much he could take. Quite a lot, as it turned out. He moaned and clung and wrapped his legs round my back and called out my name, _Brendan__ … __Bren__ …_, and when I put my hand over his mouth to stop him, he took my fingers into his mouth and sucked on them. He swore as he came, his muscles tightening around me and then slackening as I brought myself to climax inside him.

Afterwards, when I'd rolled off him, sweating, he lay back, one arm folded behind his head.

"Well, I think I can definitely say I'm gay," he said.

He looked down at his belly, slicked with cum, and reached for a tissue, did some mopping up. Tossed it aside. Turned to look at me. There was a long pause, while he seemed to be trying to read me. I kept my eyes on the ceiling, focussed on enjoying the afterbuzz. Blanked him, mainly. But eventually, he spoke.

"How long have you known?" His voice was confidential, soft, curious.

"Known what?"

"About being gay."

I looked at him for a moment. Shrugged. "I'm not gay." I heard my own voice, drawling. I could have got annoyed. But it hardly seemed worth it. It was good sex. Nothing more. He would learn. I just wanted to relax, enjoy it, that burst of energy, life, like when you've been hungry and you have the best bacon butty of your life. I was in no mood for a fight. I felt like my eyes were only half open. I could have fallen asleep, if he'd only fucking let me.

He looked stumped, though. Hesitated. "OK," he said. Then frowned. "You're bi?"

"I'm married, Macca," I said to him. "I have kids."

"So?" he asked me. "You wouldn't be the first." He rolled his eyes a little. "Believe me."

I sat up. I swung my legs around and found myself getting up off that skanky unmade bed, sharpish. Dressing again. I felt weary. There just never seemed to be any time to relax. I couldn't let my guard down. I knew he was watching me.

"I guess I know what to say to my family now, anyhow." There was no special tone to it. He just sounded like he was thinking aloud.

"You'll tell them nothing," I said to him, buckling up, feeling my systems closing down again.

He looked at me, then. A challenge. A frown. "Why the hell not? I'm not ashamed of what I am. They deserve to know."

I flashed him a glance. I felt a sense of disgust. "What break your Ma's heart? Not to mention your Da will fucking kill you."

"I'm not afraid of Dad," he said. He looked up at me. "He can go fuck himself."

I felt a rising surge of anger. My teeth gritted. "Sure. You tell em you're queer, then, if you want to. But don't bring me into it."

"I never …" he started. Then stopped. Set his own jaw, the stubborn little bugger. "Or what?" he asked me.

I walked over and stood over him then, lying naked on the bed. "Or this stops," I said to him. He looked up into my eyes. "Want this to stop?" There was a long pause. Then he shook his head. "What?" I asked him.

"No," he said.

"No, what?"

He sat up then. "No, I don't want this to stop."

I loomed over him again. Put a hand under his chin. His face softened. "Then keep it shut, yeah?"

His eyes were clouded. I knew he wanted me. His mouth opened a little. Eventually, he batted my hand away. "Sure, whatever," he said. But I knew I'd won this round.

"Good lad," I said. I walked away, towards the door. Then stopped and turned. "Spare key?"

He rolled his eyes, but got up off the bed, naked, fetched a spare key from the table, and dropped it into my hand.

"Don't I even get a goodbye kiss?" he asked, cocking an eyebrow. Not very original. It's the stuff people say when they want something, but they know they're probably not going to get it. But it was hard to tell with Macca whether he was being a sarcastic fuck, or if he really needed that shit.

I jingled the keys. "Going soft on me?"

He shook his head. "Nope."

"Good," I said. "Good."

And left him, knowing his eyes were following me out of the room.

I was right, anyway. It was the beginning of something, and not the kind you need a good-luck-in-your-new-home card for. I just didn't get that it was the end of something as well. If I'd known that my marriage was on the line, I'd never have … but I dunno. It was convenient. It was forbidden. It was irresistible. It was the start of a summer of sneaking off to fuck my wife's nephew. I never thought about her, when I was there. And it was nothing, I forgot about it when I walked out the door. Couldn't ever really think why I'd had any scruples about it really. He was ready and willing. Nothing wrong with it. Except maybe for him.

He saw her in town one day. She came in to that crappy butcher's, where he was working. Said she'd come to see how he was, find out why they hadn't heard much from him the last month. I knew he'd been avoiding the family. He'd told them he needed some space to sort himself out, a friend had lent him the deposit. That night, at the flat, he was moody. I'd been in a simmering bad mood, all day. Dec was bad. Eileen wouldn't leave it. I was failing them all, somehow, by not fixing it. I have no fucking clue, really. We fucked, obviously, first. That's what I went round there for, to fuck it out of me, the bad mood. The black dog, his fangs sunk into my shoulder and refusing to bloody budge. And it worked, for a while. It was good to lie there, on top of him, slicked with sweat, one of his hands gripping my backside, the other pressed back against the head of the bed, his head turned aside, panting, right after we both came. Knowing no one had ever fucked him like I fucked him. He didn't say much, but then that suited me. Neither did I. Then I got dressed, and he wandered round the flat in this dressing gown that was hardly built for seduction, like he suddenly didn't care much. And I can't stand it when people don't care. You have to have some self-respect. He flicked on the kettle.

"Oi," I said. "What's with you?"

"I saw Eileen." His voice was quiet.

He told me about her coming in. Trusting him. Glad to see him. They'd always been more like cousins than auntie and nephew.

"I don't see the problem," I said.

There was a silence. Then he took a deep breath. "You need to tell her, Brendan." His voice was low, but steady.

"Tell her? Tell her what?" I honestly didn't know what the fuck he was talking about.

He looked hard at the kettle. Frowned. "About us."

"Us? … What?"

He looked at me, then. "About you, then," he said. "You need to tell her about you. Don't you think you owe her that?"

I could feel it coming. That's the damn thing. I could feel it coming, but there was nothing I could do to stop it. It always works like this. Always. I could hear it my voice. My teeth, clenched. I got in very close to him.

"Tell her what? Hmm? I owe her, do I? What the _fuck _has anything about me and my wife to do with you?"

He leaned back, to get away from me. His face wasn't exactly scared. More surprised. "Brendan …"

"Tell her WHAT?"

Suddenly, his face took on this defiant chippy look. "That you're gay, Brendan."

There was a smooth dark space in my head, in which things that should have been fixed, started to shift and vibrate. I knew there'd be only one way to fix them again, make them stick to where they should be. But he wouldn't stop talking. He'd turned back to the kettle. Was watching the steam rise as it came to the boil.

"This …" he said, "it's not fair … on anybody." His voice dropped, very low. He shook his head. He seemed miserable. "And I swear if you don't …"

And I just felt that moment, that snap, when one minute you're talking, and the next minute I had him pinned up against the units by his neck, his head banging hard against a cupboard.

"Brendan! What? I didn't mean …"

Another bang of the head. Him crying out. Fear in his face, for the first time, as I shook him.

"Tell my wife, would ye? Would ye?"

"No! Bren! For fuck's sake! I just meant … she needs to know!"

That was when I hit him, I guess. I don't know why they always have to wreck it, when it's a good thing going on. He doubled over and sank onto the kitchen floor. It shut him up, anyway. A strange, flat silence descended, thick, as the kettle switched itself off, somewhere in the background.

I bent down. He was breathing, heavily. "If you ever talk about my wife like that again," I said to him, "I will kill you. D'ye hear?"

He nodded, rapidly. There were tears in his eyes.

I could have walked out and left him there. Should have, probably. The whole thing was starting to smell bad. Usually, I'd have done that. Walked away, right there and then. But this was different. He was family. I couldn't sever that tie whenever I felt like it. And I guess I liked him. Meant him no harm. I leaned back against the kitchen surface and felt the rage starting to subside. Things fixed themselves. They usually did. Things slotted into place in my head. And everything mends. Broken heads, ribs, arms. No one knew that better than me. Specially when you're younger, you bounce right back.

I found myself crouching down to him again. He shrank away. I put my hands on his face, whether to comfort him or to make him look at me, I don't really know. "You all right?" I asked him. There was no answer. He just looked confused. "Yeah," I heard myself say, "you're all right."

"I'm not …"

"It's just," I interrupted him, "there have to be rules, Macca. Do you get that there have to be rules?"

He looked at me, long and hard, his face showing he was pulled every which way, fear, misery, confusion. I'd seen that before. I'd felt it before. In the end, he took a deep breath. He spoke, low, as if he was struggling for air. I leant in. "Leave me the hell alone," he said. His eyes were furious, hurt.

I stood up. "OK," I said. "OK." There comes a time for tactical retreat. He probably just needed to get over his pride being dented. It's not nice, being on the receiving end. But necessary, sometimes. I walked out.

I left it a few days. A week, maybe. No calls. Nothing. I'd really thought he'd come round. But I had to go to him. It was getting ridiculous. I put my key in the door, and felt it stick, half way. He'd changed the locks, the little fucker. Clever boy. I rolled my eyes. Stuck my finger on the bell, and kept it there. I knew he'd come in the end. He did. The door opened. He looked tired. More defeated than defiant, now. I walked right past and found myself standing opposite him.

"You changed the locks," I said, holding up the useless key.

"I don't want this anymore," he said. He had some guts, anyway. He was looking me in the eye, for all I'm a foot and a half taller than him. Maybe more.

"There's no need to be like that," I said. "If you stick to the rules, there's no problem."

"You fucking hit me, Brendan." There was a mix of emotions in his voice, made it harder to read. Anger. Resignation. Vulnerability.

"You were threatening to tell Eileen," I said.

"No," he said. Stuck his chin out, cocky, even though his eyes were scared. "I wasn't. I was gonna say I won't be around to pick up the pieces when she finds out from someone else. But then you hit me." He sounded bitter.

I let this sink in. "Then we don't have a problem," I said.

He looked at me for a long moment, like he was searching my face. Then he looked down. Shook his head. Laughed, short, dry, joyless. Looked up again. His shoulders seemed to have dropped.

"Do you even care about me at all?" he asked.

So that's what this was about, I realised. Not about Eileen, about guilt for letting his auntie's husband fuck him, and loving it. And not about the hurting, that I'd had to pull him up about how this worked, not really, though I knew he was probably feeling raw. It was about the touchy feely stuff. He needed to feel that I felt something for him. Something that made it worth his while, hanging on for me. It was … a challenge. I'd never been in this territory before, well not for a long time, not since …

I stepped closer to him. Looked down into his face. Lowered my voice.

"Yeah," I said. "I care about you."

People are transparent, really. They have no idea how easy they are to read. To me, anyway. I could see how badly he wanted to believe it. I reached out a hand and stroked his face, and he didn't pull away.

"I care," I said, more softly. "I do. All right? I just … I can't have Eileen getting hurt." I could see he was trying to resist. And failing. "You know how this works," I said, still soft, running my thumb under his bottom lip. "Right?" He nodded maybe, just slightly. And I leant in, with just the right amount of hesitation, and he let me kiss him. His mouth was soft. It opened.

We made up, obviously. The best way. I took it slow, steady, deliberate. I took my time to make sure he felt what he needed to feel. It was good. He was submissive, but demanding, like I owed him something. And it's weird, but afterwards, I let him lie in the crook of my arm. And I swear I could have persuaded myself I felt something for him. They say if you pretend for long enough, you become the person you're pretending to be. I could still be me, at home, with Eileen and the boys, and give him something. Enough. Enough to keep him.

It went on, obviously. He kept to the rules, now. He didn't mention Eileen again, either. He was a quick learner, in lots of ways. He was damn careless though. He made mistakes, and he nearly dragged me down with him. Eileen was getting twitchy. Maybe I'd been having too good a time, I don't know, and I got careless as well, stopped acting the husband as much as I should. I know I'd disappeared a lot over those months, come up with a lot of excuses, work, whatever. I even ducked out of holiday, let her and the boys go off to the West Coast with their granny and grandpa, claimed pressure of work. Spent most of it with him. Inside him. When she got back, she seemed suspicious. Hostile almost, a lot of the time, in a way she'd never been before. One day, I only went out to get a paper, and I forgot my phone. When I got back in, it was in her hand. She was looking down at it, scrolling through numbers, frowning. She jumped, just a bit, when I walked in.

"What're you doing?" I asked her, direct. Trying not to show I was right on the defensive, protecting myself, gloves up, my head covered, my chest.

One of the advantages of only playing away with other guys, was my phone was clean at least. I knew if she was looking for the names of other women on there, I'd come up smelling of roses. She's always had balls, though, has Eileen. She recovered herself pretty fast. Looked me in the eye.

"You get a lot of calls from Macca," she said, her eyebrows raised.

"So?" I don't mind admitting my blood ran cold when I heard her say his name.

"So …" she said, "I didn't even know you two were still in touch."

"Yeah …" I started, trying to think what the hell I could come up with to explain. At that very second, the phone buzzed in her hand. She looked down at it. My heart practically went into arrest. I felt sweat on my brow.

"Oh look," she said, holding it up so I could see. "Macca." There was a sarcastic edge to her voice.

"Yeah … " I said, and I needed to think on my feet here, "I didn't want to say anything, but … I've been … giving him driving lessons."

Jesus fucking Christ, to this day I don't know where that came from, but it was as good as anything.

Her eyebrows shot up even higher. She looked completely amazed. "Driving lessons?"

"Yeah," I said. "He said things were still bad between him and Sean, so I said … I'd teach him to drive."

There was a pause. "Wow," she said. "That's … nice of you." She seemed caught on the back foot. Her brow was furrowed.

"You told me to be nice," I said, recovering some of my composure.

She laughed, short. "I never expected you to actually do it, Brendan," she said. And then passed the phone to me. "You'd better answer that then," she said. And turned away, shaking her head slightly.

I started breathing again. Adrenalin thumped through my veins, kickstarting me. I hadn't realised how fast my pulse was until the phone was back in my hand. I read the text. And it was a fucking good job she never opened it. Because that text had absolutely nothing to do with driving lessons, and everything to do with what he wanted me to do to him, and how, where, and when.

When I told him, he laughed. He thought it was hysterical, actually.

"So, gonna teach me to drive, are ye, Uncle Brendan?" he was laughing, pretty hard. It was infectious. Hard not to laugh as well, as I pushed him into the bedroom and gave him a few lessons of a different kind. Before I left, I had to close down a bit. This thing was getting dangerous, and I needed to start bringing it back under control. Told him not to text again. I'd call him. He pouted, but didn't put up any resistance. He rarely did, by that time.

And then I had to actually take the fecker out for lessons. Eileen was still puzzled, wary. And I guess I knew things weren't completely right between us, and I needed to make this look right. So I'd take him out, warn him not to wreck the fecking car, put up with his backchat, and then take him back to his place and punish him for anything he'd got wrong. It was a laugh, actually. I hadn't had a laugh for a long time. Not like that.

But I got lazy. I was stupid. I was disrespectful. I just … it's not like me, but I got carried away. We had to go back to the house, after a session. He'd been driving me crazy, literally, the whole time, looking at me. "Like this?" he'd say, crunching the gears. He was loving it, I guess, the attention. And I needed to punish him. But I'd left my phone behind again, and I couldn't risk her finding it. We went back to the house to get it. He came in with me, and he was immediately there, close behind, his hands on my hips, possessive. I batted him away.

"Eileen's out isn't she?" he asked me.

"Yeah," I said, "she's headed off with my credit card and a few mates. Should be gone a while."

"Well then," he shrugged, pulling closer again, his hands sliding to my waist, his mouth pressing against the small of my back. "What's the problem?"

"No," I said, "we'll go to yours." I didn't push him away though. I stood there and enjoyed the first ripples of knowing I was going to have him. And soon.

"But … I want you now," he said. I turned around. His face, tipped up, was one big come on, his mouth twisted into a smile. "I don't think I can wait." He was very close. I could smell the keenness coming off him, the desire. His lips were slightly open, his body pressed against mine, I could feel his hard-on, and Christ, when he ran his hand over the front of my pants, I knew I was getting close to the point of no return too. It was a hot day, I remember that, the warmth rising off his skin under a light T shirt, the smell of his sweat. Maybe it just got into my veins, the heat. It was insane. But I was kissing him, hard, bruising his mouth, making him moan. And then I was practically shoving him up the stairs to the bedroom. I remember hearing him laugh, just once. He thought it was funny. Or crazy. I don't know. I think I was too focussed on getting him there to laugh. Stripping him. Touching him. Tasting him.

There are times that you think back on, and you try to think how it could have ended differently. What you could have done. Or should have.

Whether I should have heard someone pulling up in a car while I was sucking on the hard flesh of his shoulder, as I pressed inside him, his knees pulled up high, handing himself to me on a plate, but all I heard was him crying out, and all I felt was his back arching, him closing around me, his muscles straining, tight as fuck, his hands knotted in my hair. Whether I should have heard a car door closing as I pinned his hands to the bed and started to fuck him, but all I heard was the blood battering in my ears, and my own grunts, and all I felt was my sweat moving over his. Whether I should have heard someone rummaging for their housekeys as I put his legs over my shoulders, and was just starting to really lose myself, but all I heard was his breathing, and then some words, that I didn't really take in, "Oh god … Brendan … I love ye …"

And then I heard the front door close.


	6. Chapter 6

****_So here we go with another slice. Thanks for waiting, and thanks for commenting. Don't feel you have to! Knowing there's a few people reading is good enough for me, I'm just surprised anyone still is! Quite long this one, but mostly dialogue. _

**Trouble**

**Part 6**

I never lost a hard-on that fast before. I froze, feeling the blood wilt from my dick and seemingly go almost straight to my head, where it pounded. I pulled out of him, and was on my feet, naked as the day I was born, listening, before he knew what was happening.

"Brendan, what the fuck?"

"Shut up," I hissed, listening out. Someone moving around, downstairs. Going into the kitchen, sounded like. "Get up." I threw clothes at him, from the floor, picking up my own.

"What?" He was still dazed.

"Just get the fuck up," I said, in a rough whisper. "There's someone here."

His eyes widened for a second. Then he was getting up as well, pulling on clothes, though not half as fast as I fucking needed him to. I was half-dressed. I froze, again. Someone was coming upstairs. I lunged for the door, locked it. Fuck, I hadn't even done that. What the fuck had I been thinking? Here. Here, at home. Jesus fucking Christ, was ever anyone that stupid? That weak? My hands were sweating. He was dressed now, beside me.

"Where am I gonna go?" He asked, low. "Bathroom?" He looked pale. Not exactly panicking. More just jittery, unsure what was going to happen.

I looked at the en suite. Too risky. Way way too risky. But there was a hand now, trying the door. Then a voice.

"Brendan?" It was Eileen. Of course, it was Eileen. She was my wife. She lived here. "Are you in there?" She sounded suspicious. Confused.

I ran a hand over my hair. "A minute," I yelled.

I walked into the en suite. Opened the taps on the bath, full, as loud as I could. And the sink. Came back out and looked at Macca.

"Window," I said, moving towards it, opening it.

He looked shocked. "No way."

"What the hell's going on in there?" Eileen asked, trying the handle again.

"I'm in the bathroom," I yelled, opening the window. "Gimme a sec." I turned to Macca. "It'll be fine. There's a drainpipe. I'll give you a hand out."

He looked at me as if I was mad. "People are gonna see me climbing out of your fucking window, Brendan. What are they gonna think?"

I grabbed his arm, and moved him roughly over there. "They'll think it's you, mucking about. People think what they wanna think. You ready?"

He looked at me, shaking his head. "Christ," he said. "This is ridiculous. Look at you!" For a moment, it was like his eyes were looking for something in mine.

"Brendan!" Eileen's voice, again. It broke the tension that seemed to hold me there, frozen.

"Get out," I said. "Now." I felt my fingers tighten around his arm.

He hesitated for one moment. As if he might even want to stay and face this out. As if I would ever let that happen. Then it seemed like he gave up. The instinct for flight won out. "Oh, fuck it," he muttered, and shook me off.

And he was on his backside on the sill fast enough. I gripped his arm, hard, as he clung to my shoulder, and swung his weight over to the pipe. Tested it, to see if it would take him. Then let go, bringing his weight across, and starting to shinny down like a twelve-year old. There wasn't much more to him than that, anyway. I watched him, for a second. Then slammed the window closed. I walked over and unlocked the door. Swung it open.

Eileen looked at me, directly. Her face guarded. There was a pause, awkward. I tried to control my breathing.

"What's going on with you?" she asked me, walking over the threshold into the room slowly, her eyes full of suspicion. Hostility seemed to come from her in waves, in a way I'd never known before.

"Nothing," I said. "I was just taking a bath." I could hear the taps still running. I walked in there, to turn them off. To get away from her eyes. She followed me in. She seemed watchful.

"Can't remember the last time you took a bath," she said to me. "You always use the shower."

I shrugged. "Felt like a change. I sometimes take a bath." I pulled out the plug, watched the water start to swirl and disappear.

"In the middle of the day?" There was an edge to her voice. Her eyes darted around the room. I could guess what she was looking for. Whatever it was, she didn't find it.

"I'm on shift at work in a bit," I said, walking out again, past her. "What're you doing back?" Tried to make it sound casual.

"I forgot my purse," she said, walking over to the dresser by what was usually her side of the bed. It was sat there. I'd never even noticed. She put her hand on it. Then seemed to freeze.

"You've been in bed," she said. Her voice sounded flat.

"Yeah," I said. "Just took a nap, y'know. Before work. Knackered."

Both of our eyes were on the bed. Rumpled. Chaotic. Very recently occupied. Her eyes lifted to mine.

"And your hair's not wet," she said to me. Same tone. Flat.

"Well I didn't have a chance to get in, did I?" I said to her. "You came back."

"Why did you lock the door?" she asked me. That edge in her voice. Hard to pin down, but there.

I shrugged, again. "The boys could walk in."

She nodded slowly. "The boys aren't here, though, are they?" she said. "And you never lock the door. In ten years, you've never locked the door."

I don't know what it was. Maybe it was just a combination of things. Me, half-dressed. The bed. The door. The fact that my damn breathing was so fast. That I was finding it hard to look her in the eye. That I was finding it hard to find answers, and I always have an answer. A smell of something, in the room. Heat. Sex.

"Have you had someone here, Brendan?" she asked me. Her voice started to shake a bit, but was still level.

"What?" I said. "No!"

She walked over to me. I can't really describe the expression on her face. It was like someone who'd been told something bad was going to happen, who'd predicted it, who'd known in her heart that it was coming, and now it had. She took a deep breath.

"Where is she, Brendan?"

"Who?" I said. "What?" It was lame. Even I knew it was lame.

She was shaking her heard. Almost laughing. That short, dry laugh that means the opposite of happy. "Please don't tell me she's in the wardrobe, or under the bed."

"Christ, Eileen," I said, "I'm not that … I wouldn't …"

That laugh, again. Another nail in a coffin being knocked in. A loss of faith. "Do I need to look?" she asked me, her eyebrows raised, almost mocking. "Do I need to look under the bed?"

I did everything in my power to still my breathing. He was gone. I could pull this round. I took her by the shoulders. "Eileen, I don't know what you think is going on …"

She shook me off. "Don't treat me like I'm stupid." She sounded angry now. A shake in her voice again. "Let's take a look, shall we? Is she in here?" She walked over to the wardrobe, threw open the doors, rummaged roughly among the clothes. Pulled a load of them out, throwing them on the floor into a crumpled pile. And she was usually so tidy. Suddenly, she just didn't seem to give a damn. "What about under here?" She bent down, checked under the actual fucking bed frame.

"Eileen …"

Then stood up again. "No? What about under here, then?" she said. "Maybe she's hiding under the duvet?" I think there were tears of anger in her eyes, a feeling of tipping over the edge into hysteria. I hate that, that messy feeling, there's no need for it. But she grabbed a corner of the duvet, threw it back. And then stopped, and looked.

The fucking condom was still on the bed. I don't know how long she looked at that condom, lying there, discarded. I looked away, something lurching inside me. When I glanced back, she was looking at the bedside table. The rest of the box was still there. Stupid. Fucking stupid. Her eyes came to mine.

"It's not …" I started.

"Don't …" she said, shaking her head. "Seriously, Brendan. Don't."

And she walked out of the room and went downstairs. It was only then I noticed the tube of stuff on the bedroom floor, where I'd thrown it. She hadn't seen that. I shoved it under the bed with my foot. Not that it mattered much now. Bit late. But I could spare her from that, at least.

I followed her down. I felt a numb sense of panic. I'd always been able to pull things round. Always. She was standing in the kitchen, with one hand over her mouth. I think we stood in silence, for a while.

"You brought someone here," she said, eventually. She was crying, now. Wiped tears off her cheek with the fingers of one hand. Her left hand. The one with the wedding ring. Funny what you notice.

I shook my head. "Eileen …"

She cut me off. "I knew you were seeing someone. But I never thought you'd bring them here."

"I didn't …"

"This is our house, Brendan. Ours." There was a pause. "Jesus Christ. I never thought I'd feel so fucking betrayed." Her voice was quite quiet. But she swore. And she never swore. Almost never. When she gave birth. She fucking cursed me to Hades and back, then. But that was about it.

"I shouldn't be surprised, really," she said, through her tears, looking into the middle distance, almost as if she was talking to herself. "I knew you had to be getting some somewhere. Because it sure as hell hasn't been with me for a long time, has it?" She looked at me, direct. An angry, direct challenge.

"It's nothing," I said. "It means nothing."

She held my gaze. "Not denying you've been seeing someone, then?" She laughed then, like it was mad. "Jesus Christ, Brendan, how did you get her out of there? The fucking window?"

She must have seen something in me. Because she laughed again, high, hysterical, turning her back, and looking up at the ceiling. "Oh, this is fucking priceless! It's a 19 year old acrobat!"

"Eileen," I said, trying to move closer, not sure how far to push it, but feeling my frustration rising, "It's … it's fucking nothing, all right? Not compared to you."

She turned back but put her hands up, to ward me off. I stopped. There was another pause. She seemed to be trying to get a grip on herself.

"Well," she said, eventually, "that's … that's good to know, Brendan. Shame it didn't stop you shagging her in my bed." There was another silence, while she seemed to be wrestling with herself. Then she gave in. She looked at me. "So who is it then?" Her voice dripped sarcasm. A defence mechanism, I knew. "Is it someone I know?"

"I don't …"

Suddenly, a shocked expression came over her face. A hand went to her mouth again. "Oh God," she said. "Those driving lessons." Her eyes were wide. "Macca."

"What?" I asked her. My heart seemed to grind to a halt. She walked over to me. Looked part shocked, part gripped by cold fury. She couldn't … couldn't have …

"Have you been using Macca as a cover?" she asked me. "Does he know about this? My own nephew?"

My heart was practically exploding. My lungs ached. I could hardly follow her words. But I think somewhere, I heard my heart start thumping again. "No!" I heard myself say. "This has … this has nothing to do with Macca."

She scanned my face, looking for deceit. "It'd better not," she said, eventually, her voice low, tears still in her eyes. "I'd never forgive either of you, if he was in on it."

There aren't many times I'm lost for words. But there seemed to be nothing to say to that, that wouldn't just dig me deeper into this mess. It was going to shit. It was all going to shit.

She walked away from me again, suddenly distant.

"What do you want me to do, Eileen?" I asked her. "What do you want me to say?"

She seemed to think about this. "I want you to go and pack a bag," she said, eventually, quietly. "And then I want you to go."

"No," I started.

Then she looked at me. "Don't make me pack for you," she said, her voice shaking. "Don't make me throw you out. Just do it."

I didn't have a feck of a lot of choice, really. I knew I probably needed to stage a retreat. There was no winning this one. Maybe it was best to let her cool off, come back another day. I went upstairs, back into the bedroom. Pulled out a bag and threw in a few things. As I watched them disappear into the bag, T shirts, jeans, whatever, I felt something rising that I didn't expect. I felt anger. Why did everything have to end up as shit like this? Why was my whole fucking life one long fight to keep everything from fucking dissolving into shit? I balled up the shirt that was in my hands, and threw it into the bag with frustration detonating in my chest. If I could have set fire to it, that bag, and everything in it, my miserable fucking excuse of a life, I would have. I breathed, heavily. In, out. Closed my eyes for a second. Fucking kill me now, I remember thinking. I'm done with this. I don't even know what I meant. But when I opened my eyes again, everything was the same as it was. And I took charge, dealt with it, I always do. Zipped up the bag. Hoisted it onto one shoulder, and headed back downstairs again.

She was still sitting at the table. She'd been crying. She looked up at me as I stood there, my bag dumped on the floor.

"How long's it been going on?" she asked me. "Just out of interest." The fake casual tone was like knives.

"Don't …" I started. "It's not …"

"I could have seen someone, y'know," she said, interrupting. It was the last thing I expected to hear. "I've had people interested. Couple of people."

"Who?" I couldn't help myself. Felt anger, rising again. My jaw set. The thought of someone taking what was mine.

She just laughed. "Bit late for that, Brendan, don't ye think?" Then she went quiet again. She seemed almost calm. "Anyway. I didn't." She looked at me. "Because I thought this was worth something."

"It is worth something," I said to her. She seemed unreachable.

She sort of smiled, through the tears. "Not enough, obviously," she said.

"I don't need to go," I said.

"Yes, you do," she said. It sounded final. She fixed me with a hard look. "You can come back in a few days. Explain to the boys what's happening. What kind of Dad they've got."

Fuck. The boys. That hurt. That really hurt. I'd never really thought. They weren't threatened, by anything I'd done … with anyone else. They were separate. They always came first. There was no competition. But now they needed to know some of it. And I knew it would make me less of a father in their eyes.

"Right," was all I said. I made a move towards the door. I felt a sudden need to get out of there. If I could have run, I would. But her voice stopped me.

"Is there anything you want to tell me, Brendan?" She was looking at me. She sounded quite calm. "Because whatever it is I've got to find out … I'd rather it came from you."

There was a pause, while our eyes met. What could I tell her? What was it she needed to hear?

"No," I said. "Nothing. There's nothing. It's nothing."

She held my gaze, just for a second. And nodded. Then I walked out. It was never my home again after that. I'm not sure it ever was, though. I only have one home, and that's my boys. It doesn't matter where it is. Other than that, I've never really done home. I don't think I know what it means.

I booked myself in to some crappy B&B. The next few days were strange. I worked, I slept. It was like being in exile, but I know how to look after myself. I fell back on that. My phone never stopped ringing. But it was never who I wanted it to be. I'd think it was Eileen, or one of the boys, and I'd snatch it up. But it never was. It was always Macca. Macca, Macca, Macca. I deleted every single one. He was the last person on earth I wanted to speak to right now. After a few days, she came to see me at work, Eileen. It was very civilized. I made her coffee. We sat down and talked. Or she talked, and I listened. She talked about separation. She didn't seem to want me back, and I didn't have an answer. I could come round the day after, explain to the boys. And after that, spend one evening a week and one day every weekend, see how it went. I remember just nodding, agreeing to it all. Like there was no alternative, here. Not like me, that. I usually fight a lot harder.

Telling them was one of the hardest damn things I've ever done. Declan and Padraig, lying slumped on the sofa. Big, dark eyes. Trying to explain that Mum and Dad weren't going to live together any more, and it was complicated, but it wasn't their fault, and we both loved them, and that wouldn't change. I'm not good at stuff like that. But I forced it out, sat straddling the arm of a chair, uneasy. Paddy seemed to take it OK. As long as I was still coming round, and we were all still Team Brady. It was Declan I couldn't reach, looking out from under his fringe, almost mute. It's hard enough, hitting adolescence like a brick wall, without discovering your Dad is a fuckwit. I wondered what was going on in his head. I realised I hadn't got a fucking clue.

The next couple of weeks, we stuck to the pattern. I saw them, when I was allowed. I spoiled them, to make up. And in between, I worked and lived out of a bag. I couldn't think of finding somewhere more permanent to live. It was like being stuck, frozen. I couldn't move on, couldn't go forward, or back.

The calls from Macca dried up after the first week. But he turned up at the club, in the end. There was an inevitability about the whole thing.

"All right, Brendan?" A voice, familiar, sort of soft, quizzical, behind me as I was clearing glasses. A question in it.

"I'm working," I said, trying to blank him, moving away.

"Brendan, for Christ's sake …" A hand, on my arm.

I looked at him. Short. Pale. Serious now. Wondered what the fuck I had been doing.

"Ten minutes," I said, knowing I couldn't put this off any longer, pushing him through to this crappy back office. Closing the door.

"So … how've you been?" he asked me. Stupid start, really. This whole thing was stupid.

"Peachy, thanks," I told him. "Just peachy." I'm sure he could detect the sarcasm.

"You've been blanking my calls," he said. Obvious, I'd have thought.

I frowned. "I've been kind of busy, Macca. Splitting up from my wife."

He nodded. "I heard you moved out. Where you staying?"

I shrugged. "Somewhere. Nowhere."

He came over to me then. And I had a terrible feeling that this would end badly. He looked up into my face.

"You don't have to stay in some dive, Brendan," he said. "Come to me."

I nodded. Was he insane? "Mmm. Why … why would I do that?"

He kept looking for my eye contact. "Because now's your chance."

"Chance for what?" I honestly thought he was crazy. His face looked hopeful.

"Your chance to tell people. Be honest. Get on with your life."

I turned away from him, then. Poured myself a whiskey. Suddenly, I needed it. "Get on with my life?" I asked him, taking a swig. Feeling the glass hard against my teeth.

"Yeah," he said. I felt his hand in the small of my back. "With me."

I turned round, and looked at him. He seemed incomprehensible. "With you? Why would I have any kind of life with you? I just lost my wife – my kids – because of you."

He seemed to take half a step back. Shook his head. "Don't blame this on me! You came after me!"

I shook my head. "You kissed me, Macca," I said to him, low, through my teeth. "You made all this happen. Remember?"

For a moment, he looked completely confused. "I …" he started, but then trailed off. Then he actually laughed. "My god. Is that really what goes on in your head?"

I felt my hand close, hard, around the glass, until my knuckles were white. "What do you mean?" I asked him.

And then his hands were on my upper arms. His thumbs seemed to caress my biceps, through the shirt. He looked up at me. Almost, pleading.

"Brendan," he said, "It's not the end of the world. You're gay!"

And that was when I hit him. I smacked him across the face, sent him flying. His back hit the wall and he crumpled to the ground. I remember my knuckles hurt. Must have smacked him right on the cheekbone.

I put the glass down on the desk. Most of the whiskey had spilt over my hand. I licked it off. It stang. My knuckles, my tongue. I was vaguely aware of him, sat there on the floor, leaning against the wall. For a moment, I was aware that I'd wanted to kill him.

I walked out and left him there. Went to the gents, wet some towels under the taps, and went back. Closed the door again. Bent down. Took his chin in one hand and looked at the damage. He seemed to be coming out of his daze. He winced. I placed the damp towels against his cheekbone, and put his hand over them.

"Press that," I said. "It'll reduce the swelling. You'll be all right."

For a moment, he was docile. Then he hawked some spit to one side, to clear his mouth. Saliva mixed with blood. And looked up at me.

"You fucking bastard," he said to me. His voice sounded thick.

"You'll be all right," I said to him, again. "Here." I reached out a hand to help him up. He batted it away.

"You must be joking," he said, and struggled to his feet without help.

He stood there, for a while, dabbing at his mouth. Looking at the blood on the towel. Then looking at me. There was a silence. I felt a need to get rid of him but couldn't work out how best to do it.

"I'll call you a taxi," I said. Not subtle.

But he just laughed, again. Strange reaction. "Don't bother," he said. "I can manage." Then he actually came closer to me, again. He looked at me now, direct. "Anyway," he said, "I'm not put off that easily."

"No?" I said, looking down at the challenge in his face. "Why's that then?"

He just shook his head again, slowly. "Because this isn't you, Bren. This doesn't have to be you."

"Is that right?" I asked him.

"Yeah," he said, still looking up at me. "Because I know what you're like. I know who you can be. I've seen it. I've felt it. And I know this isn't it." His eyes seemed to look right into my face.

"I'm touched by your faith in me, Macca, really," I said. I had no idea what he'd turned me into in his head. Some flawed romantic hero, maybe. Tortured. Someone who just needed him to turn me around.

He gave a short laugh, dry. Winced a bit and pressed the towel to his face again. Then manned up and tossed it aside, and stepped back.

"I'll see myself out," he said. "But don't think I'm not coming back for you. I don't scare easy."

For a moment, we just looked at each other. And then he turned and walked out the door. I picked up the rest of the bottle of whiskey and smashed it against the wall.

In the end, I took another bottle from the club and went back to the B&B and got slaughtered. Not the most mature of responses, maybe, but it blunted the anger and disgust that churned inside me. And then sent me over the edge into unconsciousness. Only thing is, I had this dream. I was in the car, like before, before the accident, long time ago, ten years, more. But it wasn't Peter there with me. It was Vinnie. He was looking at me, from the passenger seat.

"We need to talk, Brendan," he said to me. Same soft voice, blue eyes, looking at me. Very calm, very quiet. I think I knew he was dead. Then there were the lights again, and the crash. I woke up in a sweat, sitting up, my heart malfunctioning with adrenalin. I sat there in the dark, listening out, his voice still in my head. Stupid, I thought. Stupid. It's nothing. I waited for my pulse to slow, swallowing, and then lay back down, and stared into the darkness. Closed my eyes. Shut it out again. Prayed to just forget about it for a while. And I guess someone must have been listening, because next I knew it was day, and I was half-opening my eyes, squinting against the pain of the light on my retinas. It was way too late to catch breakfast, but it was pretty rank anyway in that place. My head was hammering, my mouth dry. I took a quick shower and went out into the town to find myself hair of the dog. It was when I had my drink in my hand and I was finding a table outside the bar where I could sit without being bothered, that I heard it. A voice.

"Brendan? Brendan Brady?"

Malachy Fisher. Sitting at a table with some dark haired girl, a right face on her. Mal. Hadn't seen him for years. I'd heard, vaguely, because Cheryl and Eileen were both on the Ma Fisher grapevine. He'd headed off to England a few years back, following that faggy brother of his. Well no one knew he was faggy at the time, but word got back after Mal found him, and I can't say I was that surprised. They both came back for their Da's funeral, and Francis made a holy show of himself. And then I heard Mal married this girl, soon after, and headed back to England.

It was tricky, in a way. He knew me, from way back. He knew about Peter, though I didn't know if they were still in touch. I'm never sure what people think they know about me. I looked at him. He looked older. Been in the wars a bit maybe, but he looked good. He held out his hand. I took it, gripped hard. His eyes looked as wary as mine, though. We were never best mates, we fought like cat and dog, but we'd kicked a football around, all the things you do as a kid, that somehow you never shake off, that tie you together forever.

"What the hell're you doing here, Malachy?" I asked him, as we sized each other up. "Thought you moved over the water?" The usual front. I can always find it when I need it.

He glanced at the girl, as we sat down together. There was an awkwardness.

"Been back for a visit," he said. "But we're heading home now, aren't we Merce?" They took each other's hand, squeezed, looked at each other, smiled in a way that spoke volumes. Christ. Trouble in paradise there, then.

"Yeah?" I asked them. "When are you heading back?"

"Tonight," he said to me. "We're booked on the night ferry."

I found myself nodding, registering this. "How's Cheryl?" I asked him, while my brain processed the information.

"She's great," Mal said. I noticed his face relaxed when he talked about her, in a way it never did around this bird that was his wife. He seemed on his guard with her, specially the daggers she was giving him now, when he talked about Chez. "You know about the money."

"Yeah," I said. I knew about the money. She'd been on the phone to Eileen, screaming her head off, a couple of months back. Quarter of a mill on a scratch card. You couldn't make it up. My sis, a rich woman. I hadn't paid a hell of a lot of notice really. It was great for her, but I'd kind of had my hands full with other matters. "How's she handling that?" I asked him.

He laughed, shrugged. "You know Cheryl. Spending it on shoes, I think. She wanted to buy the local club, but I think she's blown too much of the dosh now."

I nodded, still thinking. My pain in my head seemed to be strangely easing, like a band around it had been released. Like I'd been given a get out of jail free card.

"That'd be Cheryl," I said. I looked up at him, suddenly. "How are ye getting down to the ferry tonight?"

He looked a bit surprised. Shrugged. "We just need to order a taxi, don't we babe?" he said, turning to her, in the way he always did. I watched them, unimpressed. No one would ever have my dick on a plate like that. I found myself realising that part of me despised him, letting someone do that to him. It'd never really occurred to me before.

I drained my drink, and put it down. "I'll drive you down there."

He looked surprised, again. "You don't have to do that," he said, sounding hesitant.

"No big deal," I said. "Think I'll come along." He looked even more surprised, and so did she. I grinned, a natural reaction. "It's about time I paid Cheryl a visit," I said.

He looked at me, and then shrugged, smiled. "Sure, fine then. Great."

"I just need to make a few calls," I said. We swapped numbers, arranged when and where to meet, and I left them to it.

It's handy, knowing the right people. There was a guy I knew, worked the ferries. He got me on, short notice, for a bit of a pay-out. And then I stopped. Thought about what I was doing. I needed to explain to the boys. It was fine. It wouldn't be forever, and I'd done it before, heading off to Liverpool. I'd be back soon enough. But I couldn't go without seeing them. It was only then that I realised that I'd been supposed to be taking them out that morning, and it was already twelve. Christ. Fuck, shit. I texted them both, fast, to come and meet me at the park near the house, later on. I went by the club, told them I needed to take time off. Just a few weeks, probably. They said no problem, but there might not be a job when I got back. Well, fuck that, I thought. I fucking ran that place for years. Let it go to hell without me. Where I was going, I was gonna end up owning the fucking place, if I had my way. Then I went back to the B&B, packed, threw things back into the bag, put suits on hangers. And headed to the park.

There was something sad, I'll admit it, about standing there watching other people's kids mucking about, waiting for mine to turn up, not knowing if they'd come. Think I realised maybe for the first time how much I'd let them down. It was pathetic. I'd need to make it up to them. I would make it up to them. I took out some gum, focussed on turning it over in my mouth, to distract me. Then I saw them. Except it wasn't, it was just one. Paddy, coming bowling down the street on his bike at what looked like forty kph. He came to a halt, out of breath. Threw his bike down on the grass.

"Hi Dad," he said, "what's up?"

It was so simple for him, I remember thinking. There were no reproaches. No, where were you this morning? No, why are you such a fucking useless Dad, and when are you going to get your fucking act together? He's a straightforward kind of lad.

"Where's Declan?" I asked him, my eyes looking down the road for him. He'd be walking, slow like he does. Dragging his feet, most probably.

"Not coming," Padraig said. My heart felt like it was held in someone's fist.

"Why not?" I tried to keep the disappointment that was twisting my gut under control.

Paddy shrugged, looked unaffected. "I dunno, he says he's ill."

I looked away for a moment. Was that ill as in ill, ill? Or ill as in, you're-a-fucking-useless-father-and-I'm-giving-you-the-deep-freeze-treatment, ill? And which one of those did I need to be more worried about? I took a deep breath. Turned back to Padraig. Put my hands on his shoulders.

"OK, listen," I said to him. "I'm going away for a bit."

Was it me, or could I see disappointment in his face? I ploughed on. "Not for long. Just for a few weeks."

"Where?" he asked me. He was already quieter.

"Going to see Auntie Chez," I told him, squeezing those shoulders. Sturdy. Not like Declan's bony little blades. "You love yer Auntie Chez, dontcha?" He nodded, but he didn't look all that happy.

I crouched down, so I could look him in the eye. I wondered if by the time I came back, he'd be taller, cos he was shooting up. It hurt. But not half as much as knowing that Declan would be lying on his bed, his headphones in, blocking me out. I imagined his eyes peering out at me from under that fringe. He'd never forgive me for going and not saying goodbye. But it had to be this way. It just did.

"I'll ring you when I get there, all right buddy?" I said.

He looked back at me. "Yeah, all right."

"And tell your Ma' I'll be in touch soon enough. You can come over and visit us, yeah? You and Dec?"

"Yeah?" he asked me, looking more hopeful.

"Yeah," I said, running a hand over his hair, without stopping to wonder if I was promising something I had no idea if I could deliver on. "You'll tell Dec that? That me and Auntie Chez want you both to visit?"

He nodded. "OK."

"And listen," I said, looking up at him now from where I was crouched, "I need you to take care of your Ma, and your brother, OK?" He looked back at me out of big eyes. "You know Dec's not all that well, right?" He nodded. "Yeah," I said, back. "So you have to look out for them both for me. Just til I get back. OK?"

"OK," he said, again. His face looked so serious. Like he felt he had to grow up.

I found myself pulling him in. Holding on to him, tight. Not wanting to ever let go. Ever. And then making myself loosen my hold, and stand up.

"Get on with yer then," I said to him. "Show me what you can do on that bike."

He picked it up, and hopped on. Started to ride away. I watched for maybe a couple of seconds. Then I turned and walked away, fast. I'd done this before. I'd done this before. You just have to make a clean break, make sure you're not there when they turn around to look back. I just couldn't get why it hurt so damn much this time. Why I felt like part of me was dying.

* * *

><p>It was no bother, to get in the car, pick up Mal and his missus, and head down for the ferry that night. It was a fucking relief, to check out of that B&amp;B, leave it behind, all the crap and the shit. I'd miss my boys. I'll always miss my boys when they're not with me, but sometimes you just have to go. In one way, when I stood on that ferry deck in the dark and watched Belfast disappear, I felt like half my heart had been surgically removed. But when morning came, things were different. Felt different. I didn't have a berth, left Mal and his woman to theirs, and god was she getting on my nerves already. I just kipped on a bench in the lounge. I ached, but there's something about waking up under a new sky and knowing you're starting again. I had a feeling that anything was possible if I could find a way to make it happen. And I'd make no fucking mistakes this time.<p>

On the other side, I drove us from Liverpool to this place just outside Chester, where Mal's wife's family were. It was a great day, the sun was shining. Mal took us to this bar and insisted on buying a round to pay back for the lifts, and I had no complaints, for all his missus was doing my head in. I disappeared inside to go to the gents, and when I came back out, there she was. Tall as me. Broad shoulders. Even broader Bellie accent. Frock that'd give a stronger man a migraine. Cheryl Brady. My sister. Shouting the odds over something. I came up behind her, put my hands on her shoulders.

"Surprise!"


	7. Chapter 7

_Hi again, and thanks for reading. A couple of people have said to me they wish I'd write Brendan with Ste again, so this might give you a bit of what you're looking for. Merry Christmas! I can't believe all this happened well over a year ago now ..._

**Trouble**

**Part 7**

So. Cheryl.

I've not said much about my sister, have I? The only one I've got, I guess, god bless her. My family. My other family. I wouldn't say we were close. Well, we were, I guess, growing up. Are, still, in a way. But there's plenty she doesn't need to know. Can't ever know. Things I can't let her get anywhere near. And it's not like she's always been there. I was seven before I knew she even existed.

That was when the old man fucked off to Belfast. I only remember Mam ranting and raving. There was another woman. She'd fallen pregnant. There was a kid. He'd chosen them over us. I did my best, to hold things together. She wasn't great, my Mam. There were problems. We had three years of it, those problems. Then she died. She'd been taken into hospital, but she said she'd be back. I came home from wherever I'd been bunking off school and found the priest there. Never a good sign, that.

It brought Da back, though. He turned up, looking grim, hair combed down. After the funeral, he told me to pack a bag, and I followed him back to the station to go North. I was too old, by then, to hold his hand, or anybody's. I'd got used to managing for myself. But if I could have done, if he'd let me, I would. Just that day, that particular day. For all he barely looked at me the whole walk.

And that was when I met her, my sister, at the end of that journey, on a cold train, to a cold new place. She was just a little kid then, barely starting school. She was all big saucer eyes and open mouth, staring at me like I'd landed from another planet. We had nothing in common, not even the way we talked. She was the princess, the golden girl. He adored her, it was plain. She got what I didn't get. But I never resented her getting that, not once. Strange. Maybe it was just the way she took it in her stride. Me, I mean. "This is my brother," she said, to everyone, like it was a statement of intent. Like she liked it. Took after her Mam, I guess. She was the same. I have no idea how she felt, me rocking up from the wrong side of the border, bringing trouble with me. But if she hated it, she never let on. She kept me fed, and warm. Yeah, and cared for, for all the headaches I brought her. Had a great laugh, Cheryl's ma, like a pot boiling. Didn't hear it as much as I'd like to have. But yeah.

I'm not sure when the first time was that I really felt it might me and Chez against the world, like I was a proper brother to her, that she was as close to me at home as Peter was at school. Maybe it was when she was seven, eightish, just starting to grow up, and I pushed her out of the way of some hit and run merchant. It happened in the blink, pure instinct. I remember lying on the pavement, with her sprawled underneath me, hearing a car skidding and driving off, and not being sure if I was still alive, or if she was. And then her stirring and untangling, face white as a sheet, and me getting to my feet, stiff, giving her a hand up. She was shaking. I probably was, but I hide it well. She held on to my hand, real tight. "You saved me," she said, her eyes massive, her breathing heavy. "Don't be daft," I said, and dragged her off home, my arm round her shoulder, her clinging round my waist, feeling her hair under my chin, knowing that no matter what, I had to look out for her now. But from then on, she said we were a team. I don't know if you've ever been a thirteen year old lad trying to be a man before your time, and having an eight year old sister who thinks you're Team Brady and wants to high five you every chance she gets, but it's a challenge. I didn't mind it though. Funny, that.

I was seventeen by the time she came up to big school, and straight off she had her eye on my mates. Had a crush on Malachy from the word go. She'd hang around the football field, watching us play. Twisting her hair. Wearing lippy that'd have made her Ma confiscate her supplies if she'd only known. Never came to anything til after I married Eileen though, and we had the boys. Had probably copped the occasional snog before that, but then suddenly, they were serious. Two years, nearly, they were seeing each other. All the time I was in Liverpool, though they split soon after I got back. She came round and drank my whiskey and cried and cussed love and asked me why it fucking hurt so much, and I listened and drank with her and tried not to think about Liverpool and someone who'd used that word to me. She fell asleep on the sofa and I put a blanket over her and listened to her snoring, not all that gently. And the next day, she got up and carried on. Not much brings her down, my sister. Even when her heart's in bits.

I thought it'd be good for her, when Mal fucked off to England to find work and keep an eye on that weirdo brother of his who was at College there. I thought maybe, put some distance between them, and it'd solve everything. Always works for me. But a few months later, he was back for his Da's funeral. And then suddenly there was a wedding, some girl he'd met over there, and then Mal and his crazy English bride headed back over the water together. Chez was restless, after that. Couldn't settle to anything, or anyone. Six months later, she'd packed a bag and followed him there, for all the good it did her.

I never thought much about it, really, her leaving. We'd drifted apart a bit, maybe. I had my hands full with the kids, work, other stuff. And she'd be around, back for visits. There wasn't much keeping her at home, at any rate. Her Mum had died, few years back. I guess that's why the thing with Malachy hit her so hard. And the old fella was all right. He didn't need anyone. I wanted her to go, in a way. Get away. Escape. Start again. Everyone needs that, don't they?

So yeah, she was fine, my sister. She staggered from one disaster to another over there, by the sounds of it. She was getting married, then she wasn't. And then one day she bought a scratch card and won a quarter mill. You couldn't make it up.

I wasn't interested in the money, not really, not when I first heard. Sure, I filed it away for future reference, in case of emergency, but I was glad for her, she deserved a spadeful of luck, and I had plenty cash of my own. It passed through my hands like water, money did, always. Easy in, easy out. And I'd had the sense to stash some away. But recently, with Declan, things had been hard. Eileen had got sick of waiting, started talking about private consultations, started getting second opinions, third. They were expensive opinions. It didn't take long before the stash was gone. And now, suddenly, for the first time in a long time, I had no job. Nothing coming in. Nothing. And bills to pay. Mortgage. Credit cards. Doctor bills. I just knew I had to find a way to pay them. If I owed Eileen nothing else, then I owed her that, to support her and the kids. I'd have died rather than admit I couldn't cover the cheque. So yeah, I'll admit, that money of Chez's suddenly had its attractions. If I knew one thing, it's that she wouldn't have a clue how to make it work for her – the whole lot would be gone on holidays, clothes and bling. But that's where I came in. I was gonna put that money to work, and I was gonna make it sweat profit, for both of us, any way I knew how.

She seemed happy to see me, anyway. She was all smiles and hugs, same as always, even though she was right in the middle of some massive spat with Mal's woman, Mercedes. Once we'd broken that up, dragging them apart like spitting cats, and it was just her and me, I explained. Or I didn't. I told her I'd found Eileen in bed with someone else. I don't even really know where it came from, I just made it up on the spur, but it was the only thing that I thought would wash. It was somewhere near the truth, anyway. In the same ballpark. I dunno, I just couldn't be turning up there with my tail between my legs. I guess in one way, it made me look stupid, that I let myself be cheated on. But better that than her knowing … anything else. She'd never have let it go, wanted to know who it was, hounded me to the end of my days, broken me down. She was shocked, obviously. She liked Eileen.

"Does Dad know?" she asked me, all concern.

I shook my head. Christ, I hadn't even been to see him since Eileen threw me out. That was the last thing I wanted to deal with. He'd know, soon enough. I didn't want people knowing just yet, I told her. Asked her to let the dust settle. It bought me some time, if nothing else. And I could do a lot with that time. Get myself established, at least.

I started digging about the money when me and Chez went out together. How much was left. What she wanted to do with it. What she'd managed to spend the rest on. She got lathered, same as always, and we talked. She'd wanted to buy this local club, she said. But she didn't have enough left now. I asked questions. Seems like it was owned by some guy who went up in smoke inside it. Had a lot of enemies, apparently. Left it to his brother, but he wanted shot of it, would be glad of a quick sale. Specially after this guy Calvin died, who'd been helping him run it. I got her to walk back past it, show it to me. I stood and looked up at it. It wasn't much. But there was a fancy food place right opposite, right kind of clientele. A college, to provide a nice regular supply of students with loan money falling out of their pockets. And a pub, owned by some ex-Premiership player, who might make a good contact. It had … possibilities. We just needed an investor.

There was only one person I knew had that money. Danny Houston. Next day, I put in the call. I'd have done anything for it to be someone else. But sometimes, you just have to get into bed with the man with the dough.

"Brendan!" he said, when he clocked it was me, that fake cheery way he has, "I thought maybe I'd done something to upset you. You don't write, you don't call." He laughed, joyless.

"I've got a proposal," I started.

He laughed, again. "This is so sudden! I feel like I'm being swept off my feet."

I gritted my teeth. I gave him the full schmooze, the full-wattage charm. I'd done my figures, mentally. He sounded interested. Silent partner, he'd be. The more silent the better, I was hoping. In the end, he agreed faster than I expected.

"We've always done good business together," he said to me. "I know I can trust you to handle that end of things, right Brendan?"

I kept up with the blagging. I had no intention of letting anyone else see to business once that place was mine. Ours, I mean. Mine and Chez's. He said he'd come down soon, check the place out. Then he laughed again. "Don't get distracted," he said to me, smooth, level.

"When do I ever?" I said back to him. He laughed, grim.

And that was it. Deal done. If only Malachy hadn't stuck his oar in. I don't know what his beef was, really. It was like he'd got this idea that it was his job to look out for Chez, not mine, and that meant protecting her from me. I don't know when that happened, when it was that I became the bad guy. I was her brother, I did the protecting, I always had. Hadn't I? But it was like somewhere along the road, I'd crossed some kind of line and now I was the enemy. I just didn't remember crossing that line. It was a mystery.

We were in the pub, the Dog, when I told her about Danny. She was over the moon, really happy. I felt like I'd done a good thing, for both of us, that we were on the way back up. But then somehow Mal gets this idea in his head that Danny is dodgy, that I'm setting Chez up for a fall. And he just wouldn't leave it alone. I looked at him, his face earnest, his body blocking me, and realised we'd not been friends for a long time. In fact, I pretty much hated him. Hated what he thought he saw when he looked at me. What he thought he knew about me.

In the end, he was driving me mental. He was an obstacle in my way. I needed that club, needed the money we could make out of that club, and I needed the deal to go through fast. I barely had a fifty to my name. I'm not proud of it, but I'd even taken money from Cheryl's purse, just to get by. I guess I thought she'd never miss it. But now, I needed to call in reinforcements to deal with the situation.

I rang someone I knew. Veronica, her name was, Ronnie sometimes, though she'd used some different names in her time. She was a grifter, basically. I knew her from the Liverpool days, she could charm the cash out of the punters' pockets like the birds out of the trees. She was useful. We were useful to each other, I guess. There was a time she'd expected more from me. "I'm married," I'd said to her, smiling. She seemed to take it on the chin. "Shame," she said, shrugging. But I sometimes think part of her hated me from that moment. Maybe I should have just gritted my teeth and done the business with her. It might have saved a whole heap of trouble down the line.

The deal was now, that she would sweet talk Mal into bed, then tie him up and leave him to be found by the lovely Mercedes. I didn't shed any tears for the wife, she'd been up in my sister's face after all, and I couldn't have that. And in the mean time, Veronica would clear the house of whatever tat they had, we'd sell it on, she'd get half, and I'd have a couple of grand to tide me over til the club started bringing in the cash.

It worked a treat, up to a point. It was easier than it sounds, to turn Mal's head. I'd already seen that things between him and Mercedes were rockier than the Wicklow Mountains. She'd been unfaithful, Cheryl told me, all summer, with her own sister's husband, the guy who died. Total shitstorm. They were trying to patch things up, but it was clear enough that the ship was sinking and they were going down with it.

Anyway, we were drinking at the pub, I made sure Mal had had just enough to be unwise, the grifter turned up as arranged, turned on the charm, and I left them to it.

It should have worked like a dream. Malachy was quick enough to fall for it. But I guess maybe we underestimated the wife. She was as tough as she looked, and nobody's fool either. Next thing I knew, Veronica's on the phone begging for help, and I go round there, and she's chained to the radiator. Turns out Mercy sussed her out, her and that family of hers managed to get their stuff back, and they left her there while they called the cops. It was frustrating, but in a way … almost entertaining. Anyway, I ended up with half of precisely nothing, and so did she. So it was even more important that we got that club up and running with no more messing.

It was tricky. Suddenly, Chez thought she was Businesswoman of the Year, and for all her strengths, that isn't one of them. I sat in on the interviews for the bar staff, and managed to steer her away from Mal's wife, for all she was experienced. She was trouble, it was written all over her. By the sounds of it, she'd spent a fair bit of her previous stint in the office underneath the manager, and we couldn't have that. I made sure we went for her sister, bit older, hard as nails, but with her head screwed on, and some guy whose family had just sold the pub. Knew the ropes, but knew his place. Badly needed the job, by the sound of it. So that was it. It was all falling into place. All change. The Loft out, Chez Chez in. Cheesy name, but Cheryl insisted. An old life for a new one. Fresh start.

Nothing in life goes as smooth as you think though, I've learned that the hard way. Ran into a bit of trouble, the day of the opening. Cheryl was buzzing, lording it over the staff while I put in the actual work, pulling every string I knew. I was on my phone, at the bar. There were a million different things cracking off, orders coming in, Jacqui, the barmaid, giving me backchat behind the bar. I was vaguely aware of a noise like a fly, buzzing. Someone talking to Cheryl about the catering, a bit of ducking and diving going on over the order. I focussed.

And there was a boy.

I never noticed a damn thing about him, really. I never even looked up at first. But I could see him on the edge of my field of vision. Some local lad. Skinny. Hollow cheekbones. Bit nervous, shifting from foot to foot like he wasn't supposed to be there.

I decided to stir things up a bit. I don't even know why, really. Maybe it just seemed too cosy. She's so trusting, Cheryl, and no scam-merchant was ripping off my sister. I went over there and told her they were rubbish, the things he'd done, we should go back to the guy who ran the restaurant. They didn't look all that bad, really, but I didn't want him thinking he'd got an easy ride. And he was straight back in there, protesting. He'd worked really hard on them, he said. Outraged. It was … amusing. I let my eyes run over his face for the first time. Yeah. Amusing. Then Chez was asking me to apologize to the scrote. Not so amusing. Ste, she called him. Ste. There was no way I was fucking apologizing to anyone for anything, let alone a lad without a proper name. He was loving it, though. I remember the tilt of his chin. The smug look of satisfaction on his bony face. I walked away. I'd sort Chez out later, put her right. And him … "Apology accepted!" I heard him yelling, as the door swung shut behind me. I remember a wave of unbelievable irritation. As if I'd ever apologize to him, need to, want to. Someone needed to put him straight on that. That was it, really. Just irritation, and a need to sort it out. Start as you mean to go on.

We got that club opened that night, though it was a miracle, in more ways than one. I watched Chez take the credit while I did the floor work with the local VIPs. I'd managed to get the ex-footie player from the pub to sweet talk his WAG wife and her substantially less WAG cousin into coming along; the first one at least brought a bit of class, and the other brought a bit of glamour, though the supermodel act was mostly for show. I could see right through her game, no problem. I still managed to steer her into the office though. Reputation to keep up, and all that. We didn't do anything. Just drank, and flirted, and sounded each other out, a couple of pros. She ended up showing me her portfolio on the web. Never stopped talking about her career options. Suited me fine.

Except he was waiting for me, when I got out. He needed a job, he said. I tried to brush him off, I did. But he was dancing in front of me, all teeth and pout and fucking … I have no idea, really. Said he'd seen me nick some booze. Which I had, but as it was my basically my club, I couldn't see the problem. I remember just watching him, as he talked. Talked, and talked, and talked, like he'd never stop. All sorts of crap came spilling out of that pretty mouth. It was … hypnotic, in a way. I asked him whether he thought I cared what he was thinking, and he still didn't budge. He was a sarcastic, cheeky fuck, trying to get one over. He reminded me of someone. He was threatening to out me to Cheryl, I think. I didn't like that. But in a way, still … amusing. "What positions have you got?" he asked me, unstoppable. "You know, anything to keep my mouth shut?" I could have laughed, really. He thought he was winning. Grinning like a cat that'd got the cream.

So I smacked him. Sent him flying across a table of the stuff he'd worked so hard on, or so he said. I looked down at him, his face unconscious. Not a bad face at all, when he wasn't talking. Pretty. Long eyelashes. I shook my hand out, feeling a deep sense of release.

"Oops," I said.

It's a shame, really, that he had to wake up, he looked so peaceful down there. But there had to be a come-back. He was back up in a couple of minutes, all bruised lips and blazing eyes and shouting the odds. Chez was mortified, though I don't know why, she knows how things go down between men. And Mal was still sticking his oar in, watching my every move. I tried to pass the whole thing off. He'd insulted the glamour girl, I said, and she was happy to back it up as long as it got her in the papers. The lad wanted to go to the police, Cheryl said. And the press were already sniffing around, there for the opening, just local amateurs, but I knew they could hurt Chez and the club if they felt like it. And she'd worked for this, no one was taking that away from her. So I grabbed hold of the guy, took him by his skinny shoulders, steered him outside. And still, he didn't seem scared.

"Oh, so wot, you gonna hit me again, eh?" he asked me, arms held wide, like he was making himself a target.

Course not, I said to him, keeping it smooth. He said it wasn't him, called the press. I noticed the arch of his eyebrow and the line of his jaw as he said it. I dangled the job in front of him, to quieten him. And he came round, fast enough, like the hustler he was. I watched his face soften.

"Listen," he said, "whatever happened in there, I'm sorry, but I've got no job, I've got two kids, and I just need a break, don't ah?"

Two kids. At his age. Christ. He couldn't be more than twenty. His eyes were blue grey, I noticed, deep set. Pleading.

I told him he had a week to prove himself. He listened. His mouth was slightly open. Good mouth. When he clocked what was happening, he almost smiled. Told me I wouldn't regret it. He wasn't to know that I don't really do regrets. And I felt a need to put him right on that, get him on the right track. I told him if he ever talked about the cops again, his kids would have no daddy. The smile disappeared. His eyes clouded. I guess he was afraid of me then. First time, definitely. Not the last.

"OK?" I asked him, and patted his cheek. The skin was soft under the brief contact of my hand. He broke eye contact first, looked down, then back up at me. Sullen still, but submissive now. And finally, he'd shut up. Result.

It did the trick though. He sat and performed like a trouper. Made most of it up himself, in the end, which showed a degree of initiative if nothing else. He'd fallen, he told the reporter, his own fault, lost his footing, and I caught him. My mouth twitched at the thought. I'd been heroic, he said, looking to me for approval. Heroic. I remember thinking it's amazing what a need to feed your kids can make you do.

"What about your nose?" she asked him, the reporter girl, unpersuaded, knowing he was spinning her a line. It wasn't a bad nose, actually. I noticed the tilt of it at the end. He'd hit it against the table, he said. I was impressed by how fast he'd caught on. He almost seemed to be enjoying it. I think so, anyway, for all he kept looking at me, unsure. Anyway, it was sorted. He was in, we were stuck with him, and I had no objections as long as he worked his backside off and kept his mouth shut.

Sometimes in your life you have this feeling. Pieces, falling into place. Like when Cheryl's Ma first made her and me toast after school, and it felt like home. Like when I first became mates with Peter, back in school. Like when Declan was born. Maybe like when I first went to Liverpool, and the club was heaving, and it was all happening. I was getting that feeling. I was buzzing. Coming over to be with Cheryl, starting this place, it was the right thing. I missed the kids, like mad. Declan's birthday was coming up, and I wanted to be there for him. But I needed to be free of it as well, the whole mess of it back home. I'd already had one scare. Chez told me someone was coming over that I knew, and I thought it was Eileen, and my insides turned over, but it just turned out to be her old mate Lynsey, come to work close by. And I felt nothing but relief. Life was good.

I felt for Chez though. It was tough enough that Mal had moved on, but this girl she'd started working for when she first came over, her best mate now, was sick. Cancer. I'll admit when I suggested to Chez that she sponsor this charity walk they were doing, I was thinking of good business as well as my soul. It always seemed like someone else had designs on that, anyway. It's hard shaking off the darkness once it's taken you. And right that moment, when things were good, Veronica turned back up, wanting the money she never got, and I had none to give her. Said she had people breathing down her neck, as if I cared. Said if she didn't get her money, she'd tell Mal that it was me that fleeced him. I just laughed. I honestly thought I could get rid of her, easy enough. She wasn't stupid enough to burn her bridges completely. But she wouldn't go away. Started threatening to tell Cheryl as well. "The facts," she said. I couldn't be too sure what she meant. She knew I'd been involved in things I shouldn't have been, since way back. Things Cheryl knew nothing about. Sure, Veronica knew about Mal. But she'd also known Vinnie. How much more than that she'd known, I had no clue. Luckily, my sister's never been one to listen to gossip, where I'm concerned. She believes what she wants to believe, and she wants to believe I'm her white knight. I looked Veronica in the eye.

"Trust me," I said, "many have tried and failed."

I thought I'd got rid of her, but I should have known better, I guess. I get back to the flat and find her there with Cheryl, and my sister's all shook up. Alarm bells started ringing, straight off. Chez had been mugged, apparently, and Veronica's all over her, Cheryl's calling her a saint, but I knew. She wanted me to know. Looks like Veronica had a few contacts of her own she could call on when she needed them. And after that she just wouldn't stay away. She wanted what was hers, she said.

Let it never be said that I don't know when to bide my time. Sometimes, you have to choose your moment. I decided to buy myself some breathing space, get her off Cheryl's back, so I told her I'd get the money. I'll admit she had me on the ropes for a bit. I tried a few leads. Lynsey had just come into a tidy few grand off some relative, and I offered to help take it off her hands, put it into some investments, but Malachy fucking well warned her off. I tried calling in a few favours, but no joy. There's not many stick around to help out when they sense you're getting desperate.

And then there was my sister, right in front of me like a gift from God, counting the money for the charity walk with her mate's fella, over a couple of grand for sure. It was Chez who suggested stashing it in the club safe, not me. It'd be insured there, she said. But I suppose it wasn't far from there to me nudging her into telling me about the security. Key pad. Alarmed, but four minutes until the cops got there. Four digit code.

That was the only tricky bit, really. I just had to crack that code. Had a bit of a rifle through some of her documents, in her room. Then my eyes fell on this letter from the wholesalers, with her ID on it.

Her birthday, 26/10/1986. 2610. It had to be. It was exactly the kind of thing she'd do, to remember.

I did it. Gloves, balaclava. In, alarms set off to make it look like an outside job, into the safe, 2610. It opened. Thank you Cheryl, I thought. She made it so easy for me. I took the club's takings, but I'll admit, I pulled back my hand when it came to the charity money. I don't know what that was. Conscience, I guess some people would say. Only taking what I needed, I'd say. I put it back, smashed the lock, and made an exit out of the downstairs door.

It would have been perfect really if it hadn't been for Mal, sniffing around like a fucking guard dog again. There was no way I could let him catch me, I'd be finished with Cheryl, and I needed her, needed her still to believe in me. I legged it down the alley alongside the club but he caught me up and had me pinned against the wall. He was trying to rip off the mask. I had a surge of adrenalin.

"Back off," I spat into his face, swinging the mallet I'd used to break the doors. He looked shocked, just shocked enough to give me a moment to push him off and leg it before he could catch his breath to follow. I burnt those clothes. If I do something, I finish it, and this had to be finished. Then I headed back to the club to prop up Cheryl when she found out about the break-in. She was upset, obviously. And she needed me. But I had a pretty good idea that Malachy was on to the whole thing, and it was starting to get dangerous. I needed to come up with a plan that'd sort him and Veronica in one move.

The day of the walk, she was back. I've always had this instinct for knowing when people are watching me. Like I was waiting to be caught out about something, my Da' used to say. I've never liked the idea of being caught out. I don't like surprises. I spend my life making sure they don't happen. Not to me, anway.

"You should wear a bell around your neck," I said to her, not needing to look to know she was there.

She was still threatening to tell Cheryl my secrets. "You know I'll do it," she said, and yeah, there was no way she wouldn't if she thought she could gain from it. But I also knew Mal was listening at the bottom of the stairs. Seriously, people are not usually half as clever as they think they are. In the end, it was easy. I knew he was watching as I went with Cheryl to stow the charity money in the car boot. I also knew he was watching when I met Veronica in the park and handed her the keys, so she could take it. I made sure he knew, held them up. Nice and obvious. All I had to do then was tell the friendly local PCSO, who happened to think the sun shone out of me, that the keys had been nicked from my jacket. And then wait for Mal to turn up with Veronica in tow, pointing the finger. All to plan. She tried to pin it on me, obviously, but I made out I knew nothing about it, and I can be very convincing. I dropped in a reminder about someone scamming Mal and the McQueens, and the friendly PCSO recognised her, took her away, and that was that. Pretty satisfactory, except the cops insisted the money had to be taken away as well, even if it was just to be logged as evidence. That was tough. I dipped into my pocket and handed over a wad of cash to Chez's mate, Steph. Nice girl, really. She didn't want to take it, but everyone else followed. Heart-warming, isn't it?

Malachy didn't buy it though. He may be many things, but stupid isn't one of them.

"You set me up," he said, getting me on my own. "You knew I was watching you." Ten out of ten, Fisher.

"Yeah?" I said to him, unconcerned. "Prove it."

And I think I realised then what I despised about him. He was impotent. There was literally fuck all he could do about anything. I don't know how he'd ended up like that really. It seemed a mighty long fall from the Mal I knew, the one who could have any girl he wanted, any job. Now, I just found him so easy to play. There was no challenge there. I told him Chez just wanted us to get along, but that if he wanted to play dirty, he'd need to start watching his back. If appealing to a guy's better nature doesn't work, I usually find a threat'll work a treat. And I dropped a few hints about what that might mean, turning on the flirt with his missus right in front of his face. It was obvious that the whole marriage had gone to fuck, the way I knew it would. She was practically throwing other guys in his face, and she was up for it. It was hard not to enjoy it. It was just as hard to imagine ever getting into anything like that, letting anyone have my dick on a plate like Mal had. But it seemed to get rid of him for a while. He had other priorities.

He wasn't the only one. With the two of them off my back, for however long, I needed to start making some serious money, just to keep Danny onside if nothing else. I'd made him promises, cooked the figures a bit, and I knew what he'd be expecting. So I picked up with some old contacts, started to delve into a bit of extra-curricular activity. But I needed to keep a lid on the number of people who knew, because I didn't want Cheryl getting mixed up in it, I had to protect her from that, and it was fucking hard, trying to operate in such a small place where the staff were always under my feet.

I'd had no reason to regret giving him a job, that local lad, the chancer. Ste, whatever kind of name that is. Stephen. He wasn't the little piss artist I'd thought he was. He was working pretty hard, regular, reliable. And for all that we'd got off to such a bad start, he wasn't scared of me. Which was a novelty.

But he got in the way. I had the first consignment right in my hands, sweet as a nut, smelling of profit, when he walked into the office. Said his work was all done, asked if there was anything else he could do for me. I left him in there doing the rotas, because Chez was a nightmare at them, we always seemed to have five staff or none. When I came back, he was still there. I don't know why, but I wasn't expecting it. I stopped for second, watching him with his head bent over the files, a frown on his face, his tongue sticking out from the corner of his mouth. He'd sorted it, he said. He sounded triumphant. And I was impressed, I guess. Brighter than he looked. But then I noticed. The fucking package wasn't where I left it. For a moment, I felt like my heart stopped. This was serious shit. These guys, they want their money, their cut. There are no fucking excuses.

"Has anyone else been in here since I've been gone?" I asked him.

"I don't think so," he said.

Innocent, that voice. But not innocent.

"Why, what's wrong?" he said standing up.

I turned around and met him, eye to eye. I was struck by the fact that he was almost as tall as me. Almost. Just a little bit shorter, so he had to tilt his head up, to look at me. He just stood there, his face close, and looked me in the eye, defiant. He was standing up to me, literally. He was fucking standing up to me, with his defiant look in those fucking blue grey eyes. His mouth, open again. Always open. I found myself looking, for a moment, at that mouth, the shape of it. The world maybe stopped for a second.

And I did something I never do. I broke eye contact first. I looked away.

"I left something at the desk. It's gone." My eyes cast around the room.

I found it almost hard to look at him. Like it hurt, or something, to look at that face.

And that's when I felt it again for sure. That thing. That curse, that burden. That drive to have something that runs so deep I can't cut it out.

That itch.


	8. Chapter 8

**Trouble**

**Part 8**

"Did you open it?" I turned back to face him, eyeball to eyeball. I knew it had to be him that moved the package, so I had to get a bit heavy with him. Get back the upper hand.

"Course not, it was addressed to you. I thought you didn't want it left lying around, that's all."

"Where is it?" I was close to him now, up in his face. I watched him swallow, his Adams apple bobbing in his throat.

That cracked him, the closeness of me. He broke first this time, just looked sulky, said he'd done it to keep it safe, and dug it out of the filing cabinet. Said he was doing me a favour, anyone could have found it. A favour. Him, to me. I wasn't sure whether to slap him down, or give him a fucking great bonus, I was so happy to see that beautiful package. And I'm always sure. He was no fool, anyway.

"I'm guessing it's not stuffed with rose petals, is it?" he said, handing it back to me.

He got that right. He had a smart mouth on him, this kid. A smart, sulky mouth. I glanced at it again. I found myself smiling. I told him it was treats for the kids. He looked unsure, now. Then I took a change of direction. Softened.

"Cheers," I said.

"What for?" he asked me.

"Thinking on your feet," I said, hearing my own voice, soft, low.

"Don't mention it," he said, a bit confused, out of that smart, sulky mouth.

And I sent him out. Knocked just a little bit off his balance. A frown on his face, like he wasn't sure what just happened. I like that.

I sat in the office on my own, cradling the package and thinking.

I'd already been feeling it, I guess. But that's the moment I knew I was going to act on it, see how far I could take this thing. Like blowing on a spark, waiting to see if it catches. Smoulders. Burns you up. I hadn't meant to go there again. Not so quick anyway. Not after the mess last time. This was supposed to be a clean slate. But some things are just too good to turn down.

I went out later and gave him that bonus, chucked down a few notes on the bar. I kept up the cover story, told him I just didn't want the kids to have to wait for their presents. It was only partly a lie. He looked at me, unsure, and at the money, like it might contaminate him. He wasn't stupid, knew it was a line. But he still took it when I threatened to take it back. Said he'd get something for his own kids. I looked at him. It was hard, I said, being away from mine. I meant it. He seemed to understand. He couldn't imagine not being able to see Leah and Lucas, he said, and there was a half smile on his face that creased his cheek when he thought about them. His hair flopped down over his forehead. But he looked like it was messing with his head, the idea that I might be human. It made me laugh, to be honest. Confusion is always good. It gives me the advantage.

From there on in, everything I did had two ends in sight. One side of my brain took care of business, looking for ways to keep the packages coming through, specially with the new students buzzing around like flies on shit. And another part of me moved in the direction of pleasure, drawn to it, the anticipation of it, the possibility. I kept tabs on him. I liked to know what he was doing. I had him plotted, like on a radar. I could usually sense exactly where he was, from this vibe he gave off. I teased him a bit, about the money, whether he'd spent the whole lot on some rank T shirt he was wearing. Bright blue stripes. I remember. Told him he could be on to a nice little earner if he played his cards right, played on the connection I'd bought myself. There are different ways of making money pay. He wrinkled up his nose.

"No thanks, I don't wanna get mixed up in owt dodgy," he said, knocking me back.

I stopped him, putting out my rolled up paper when he was walking past me up the club steps. I made sure he had to squeeze by me to get past, the legs of his jeans almost brushing my shoulder.

"It's that type of remark that could really hurt a fella's feelings," I said to him.

He hesitated, uncertain again, and then I let him go. But on my terms.

I noticed things about him. That he was on his own a lot. Wasn't close with any of the other staff. Didn't seem to have any real buddies. No parents, or older brothers around to get in the way. No girlfriend that I could see. The only thing in the way seemed to be an ex, back at home, the mother of his kids, but they weren't together even though they shared this skanky flat. Funny arrangement if you ask me, but it seemed to work for them. So he seemed kind of … isolated. Vulnerable. Ripe. I kept him at arm's length though. Opening up one minute, closing down again the next. This is the way it goes down. That way, they like you, but they never dare to ask for too much. They know there's a line they shouldn't cross. Unless they want trouble. And it was working. I started to get the feeling that he liked me. He sure was interested enough in who I was chatting up, but then I made sure he knew all about it. Pulling, totty, I had all the lingo, and I used it. He lapped it up, thinking we were mates, lads together. He wanted to be liked. He wanted me to like him, more's the point.

It should have been easy, really. All I had to do was see how far he'd go to be liked. See if there was something there that a guy like me could give him that no girl ever would. Simple. But it all turned out to be a damn sight harder than I expected. Christ, I had never had to fight my way through such a fucking obstacle course to get to someone before. It was like slaying the fucking dragon.

The first step was to get him away from the drugs. But I was under a bit of pressure. As well as those regular money transfers home, whatever I could get my hands on to cover the bills, my boy Declan wanted one of those quad bikes for his birthday. And what my boy wanted, my boy got, specially after all he'd been through. So I had to up the ante a bit with the dealing, go out and take the product to new markets, and I needed someone to help me out, get it past the bouncers. In the end, I fixed on the friendly neighbourhood PCSO, the blonde McQueen girl, Carmel. She was perfect. No one would suspect her, and she was just clueless enough to do it. Plus, taking her on a couple of chaste dates did my reputation with the ladies no harm. But I knew he was watching me operate. There he was, trying to warn me off her. But my mind was set. I took a few notes and shoved them down the neck of his club T shirt. I didn't need to look, my fingers found their own way there. His skin was warm.

It was hilarious really. He completely thought I was really into her, but then I'm very very good at this. Anyone would have thought he was jealous. He sidled up to me on the club balcony and accused me of perving over her. I got closer. Turned to look at him, the frown, the pout, the way his dirty dark blond hair was swept across his brow.

"You're a nosy little fella, aren't ye?" I said to him. "Know what happens to nosy fellas? Wanna guess? They lose their noses."

I took in the puzzled expression on his face, like he was feeling something but had no idea what it was. I felt my temperature go up a notch. Then I went for his nose with my teeth. Just playin'.

"All right," he said, unnerved, half shrinking back.

It was all I could do not to laugh.

It worked like a dream, the thing with Miss Marple, anyway. Everyone thought I was a proper gent, taking the lonely widowed lady out for some fun, and all I had to do was spill my drink over her and slip the charlie into her purse while she went to clean up. They never even thought to search her on the way in to the SU, she looked so butter-wouldn't-melt. Slipped them out of her purse again while she was distracted. Easy. Turned in to a very lucrative night, that night. I was buzzing when we headed back to the club for a nightcap, and it wasn't from anything I'd snorted. There are other ways to get high. But there he was again, digging about me and her, wanting to know why I was at the SU with the students, smiling at me, as if he could charm it out of me. As if I'd fall for that smile.

"There's a lot you don't know about me, kid," I said to him, taking in that face that always seemed to be dancing in front of me these days. And I sent him away.

But I still saw him, talking with her, and I knew it was about me. He was trying to warn her off me this time, it was written all over him. I went over to the bar, got him alone.

"Word to the wise, young Stephen," I said, giving him his full name, the name only I'd give him. And I reached out and grabbed his nose, hard. Squeezed. He winced and almost cried out, his eyes watering. "Keep your nose out of my affairs. Got it?"

I let him go. He looked back at me, hurt, afraid, the back of his hand across his face, protecting it, already sore and swollen, his eyes burning, looking like he was trying not to cry. I wondered if it was the physical pain, or the rejection, which hurt most. It was a pity really, to have to hurt him like that, mess up his pretty face, push him away. But I told him if he did it again, got mixed up in my business, I'd kill him. His breath came, heavy and miserable, as I walked away.

Even that didn't stop him, though. He was like the Terminator or something, he just kept coming back at me. I caught him in the office, checking out the contents of the safe where he'd seen me stowing one of the packages. I watched him for a second.

"Lookin' for somethin'?" I asked him.

He jumped up nervous, faced me. I shut the door, so it was just him and me. And he did that thing he does, just talking and talking. I watched him. He was worried the money might get traced back to Cheryl, he said. I closed in on him.

"Brendan," he said, practically stammering, eyes wide, but still standing up to me, "This is not right, is it?"

Righteous, really. But annoying. He was almost shaking, he was so scared, and he still kept talking. Carmel could have gone to prison, he said. She was vulnerable. I don't suppose he can help it, but I have to keep shutting him up. I held my finger to my lips with a hiss, and his voice died away. Finally. His eyes were very grey in that light. I had to put him on a warning, last chance. I was always doing that, warning him, and he was always blundering on, as if he had some instinct for getting on the wrong side of me.

And whether he liked it or not, I needed to step things up. I needed to go straight to the supplier, and the success at the SU bar had given me this idea. Take Miss Marple to Barcelona so she could take the money through customs, and ship the product back to the homeland packed in among her panties. Simple. Effective. Risk free. For me, anyway. And she was easy to persuade. It would get her away from the bad memories, I said, and no funny business; she was practically packing her bag right there and then.

And in the mean time, I decided it might be useful to know a bit more about him. Knowledge is power, right? I started asking questions, offhand, anyone who would know. They'd never been married, him and his ex, Jacqui said, without even knowing she'd said it. But kept schtum on why they'd broken up. Funny how these chances sometimes just fall into your lap, though.

"Excuse me, I'm looking for Ste Hay?"

I looked up. Thin girl, fair. Big wide china blue eyes. His ex, the lovely Amy, walking right into the club. What a gift. I'll admit I was intrigued. I couldn't really see them together. They were tight with each other, close, and it bugged me, though there was no sex in it. None at all, not even a flicker. Interesting. More like best friends. Kids together. Cute, and strangely annoying. She seemed like a nag, wanting him to have time off to babysit. I said no, of course. But nicely. And I took the chance to do a bit more digging. They weren't together anymore, she said. But it was obvious to anyone with eyes they still cared about each other. I mentioned the boys, my boys, played the Dad card, and she melted, right off. I sweet-talked her into coming for a drink, babysitter all paid for by yours truly. She turned up glammed to the nines, and I had Stephen serving the drinks. Call it an experiment. A way of testing him out. Finding out if there was anything between them. Checking out the competition, I guess. His reaction was interesting. He went into a strop, came over, stuck his chin out, and asked me what was going on. He said they were finished, and it rang true. But it looked like jealousy. Like I said, Interesting. I smiled.

"This trip to Spain," he came back at me. "You're using Carmel to carry stuff, aren't ya?" He was well-pleased with himself over that, trying to hit me back. His face was cocky, knowing. I heard him laugh under his breath. He thought he had me bang to rights. He was pushing me, fucking hard. I don't know why he just had to keep pushing.

And it just hit me, how I could turn this to my advantage. Take Amy to Barcelona. I dangled the threat in front of him, knowing that he cared about her. I dragged him into the office and gave him the choices. Keep it shut, or I take Amy. And I let him make it. It's always best if you let them make it. I could see he was upset, his head was all over the place. I let myself touch him, just for a second. Just a tap on the face. It all helps.

When Miss Marple got cold feet all on her own, started talking about going to see her dead fella's family instead, it felt like an act of God, sent to fuck the whole thing up. I nearly lost it. But God really must work in mysterious ways, because the fair Amy walked right back into the bar, right on cue, and I had her warming up on the touchline before she knew what was happening. She was bowled over to be asked, so I guess she hadn't got out much recently. And Stephen was straight in there, trying to stop her. The kids, he said, college, problems, problems. Just made her more determined to come. Feisty one, is Amy. God bless the feminists. She was straight off to get her passport.

"You can't do this," he said to me, sounding desperate. "She's got two kids!"

I turned to face him. I didn't care who came, I said. It was up to him to sort it. He looked in pain, his face close, full of feeling, his mouth slightly open. He cared, that was his problem. It's weakness, to care that much. I had to make myself stop looking at that mouth and walk away.

In the end, it honestly worked out better than I could have expected. Seems like he didn't care about Carmel all that much, when push came to shove. He must have used all his considerable but not always obvious charms, because he persuaded her to change her mind. She was all over it again. He was still watching me, though. Followed me into the office and stood there, arms folded, eyes narrowed. He had this finely defined face, unusual. Like a cat. It occurred to me that, in the right situation, you might call it beautiful. It also occurred to me that cats and curiosity usually lead to bad endings.

I wish I could say that two days in Barcelona with Carmel McQueen was interesting, but the best I could probably say was, it went to plan. I had to bite my lip for forty eight whole fucking hours, but Goldilocks brought the product back inside a Cinderella shoe, and I got it out onto the market of waiting students. He was there, when I got back, behind the bar as always. I couldn't resist winding him up a bit. Told him Carmel had had a bit of trouble at customs, watched as his eyes widened and his mouth opened. And then there she was, clattering up the stairs, rattling her mouth off. I savoured the look on his face. It was worth it, in so many ways, that trip.

Carmel came over a bit clingy, after. I managed to put her straight though, told her it was too soon, sent her away with what was left of her dignity intact. I don't do clingy. And I didn't actually need her anymore. For now, anyway. I had myself a nice willing dealer. College boy. American. Something pathetic about him. Desperate, even. Desperate enough to let me rob his own mates' flat in lieu of the money for the gear. There were some casualties, some girl got hurt, but then … there always are casualties, with that stuff. More fool him for dealing to his mates. No fucking discipline, these kids.

But the benefit was, now Amy and Carmel were out of the picture, Stephen was off my case. He really had nothing else on me. I could relax. I didn't have to watch him every second of every day.

I still did though. Watch him, I mean. I was getting used to him just being there, working behind the bar, if the truth be known. As long as he was working and not talking crap, it was fine. And I started to think I might move this on a bit, get a bit closer. That maybe he was ready for a softer touch. There were signs.

I caught him one morning, behind the bar. I'd gone out to take a phone call, and he was standing there, with his eyes closed, trying to copy what I'd just been doing, flipping this loose change into a glass as I counted them. He was useless, kept missing. But what struck me about him was the same thing that drove me nuts. He kept trying. And eventually, he got there. I heard the coin flip into the glass. And he clenched his fists, and let out this howling "Yeah …," like all the energy in the world was flowing through him. I don't remember ever seeing him that happy before. And then the little bastard did this moustache stroke across his upper lip. And I realised he was taking the piss. I should have been fucking annoyed. But I wasn't. I realised I was smiling.

I thought it was time to have a bash at getting him on his own.

"I've put that delivery off," I said to him, wandering over later, casual, "so hold off on lunch will ya, I'm gonna need you."

"Aw," he said, his voice rising, making me want to laugh, "til when? I'm starvin'." He whined like a kid.

"Til it's done, Stephen," I said to him, but more impatient than harsh. He tutted, looked pissed off. So I acted out the relenting thing. Sighed. Got out some more cash.

"Y'know, it's nice having to bribe your own staff," I said, handing it over, indulgent. And watched his face break into a smile in return. It was a good morning, that morning. Sun was shining.

And then my fucking wife turned up.

* * *

><p>So that was the next thing. My life from home coming back to claim me. She needed money, she said, for Declan's treatment. That the docs were being fucking unhelpful, that social services were snooping around, asking about the bruises. I thought about him, then, Declan, in a way I hadn't for weeks. It was easy, just talking to him on the phone, to tell myself that he was OK. But she wouldn't be here if he was. I wondered if he was scared. If he was wondering what the fuck was wrong with him, why he was different to everyone else. The way you do when you're that age. I knew I should have gone home more, but I'd got distracted, with the club and everything. She showed me the bill for the private treatment. Over a couple of grand. I knew I had to do something. I'd never let my kids suffer. Never.<p>

"It's OK," I told her, "we'll get it sorted." And she looked relieved. So at least I could still do something for her. I just wished I'd had a clue in my head how I was gonna do it. My insides tightened, like they were under a screw.

I started to line up another Barcelona trip. I don't usually run trips that often, it's too risky, but some things are worth taking a risk for. And my very own dumb blonde was up for it, she was still carrying a flaming torch for me. I just really needed this to run smoothly. And then there he was again, Stephen.

"Sorry to hear about your son," he said, passing me a bottle of water from behind the bar, his voice quiet. "I heard you talking before."

I looked at him for a moment. He seemed to be softening, I thought, sounded almost apologetic. And his face, softer somehow.

"Thanks," I said, not totally sure how to take it. I'm not used to sympathy.

"So you're taking Carmel back to Barcelona?"

And we were right back where we started. Before Eileen. I felt anger, rising. A flash of it, taking me over. Told him to keep it shut.

"No," he said, almost falling over himself to be understood, "I understand, yeah, you need the money, but if Carmel gets caught …"

"If Carmel gets caught, what?" I said, registering every emotion on his face, trying to focus on keeping a lid on mine.

"Look," he said, "she doesn't deserve this, she's a sweet girl, and she thinks the sun shines out of yer, and you're just using her to smuggle drugs."

Protective. Of some daft woman, he hardly knew. I didn't get it.

"I don't like drugs, Stephen. What I do care about, two things. Me, and my family. If people are stupid enough to take the stuff, that's their problem. I'm just looking after my boy." I held him with my gaze. "End of."

I walked off leaving him there looking miserable. Shame, after the morning, when he was happy, but I had to do it. But that's the way it works.

Only problem is, this one didn't go to plan at all. Eileen started to cut up rough about the money, asking how I was going to get it. She said it didn't bother her, what people knew about us, what Chez thought, or anyone else, she just wanted the cash.

"You could tell her I slept with a whole rugby team, for all I care," she bitched at me. And behind her, Stephen was watching, as always, his mouth open, gaping. I realised he'd heard most of it. He asked if he could do anything.

"Just go away," I told him, rough.

Right then, I just needed everyone to go away. I didn't need Eileen anywhere near him. Or vice versa. I could not fucking stand him seeing me under pressure like that. Knowing I needed cash. He hesitated, though.

"I said get lost!" I heard the loss of control in my voice, loud, echoing around my head. The fury. Saw the hurt expression on his face, as he moved away.

"I'll get the money," I told Eileen, when he'd gone.

"Well you promised me a lot of things, once," she said to me.

I think I knew right then that she was beginning to hate me.

"If you don't think I'd do my utmost, to protect you and Declan, then you don't know me at all," I told her, trying to talk her round.

"I thought I knew you," she said, watching my face. "And you, me." Still trying to work out where it all went wrong. She changed tack. "Michael's been really good," she said.

That was like a knife. Turns out this guy Michael Donovan had been sniffing around. Helping her, she said. I could imagine how he was helping her. She'd been OK about everything really, had Eileen. And I knew she would have to get on with her life. But I didn't like the sound of that at all, the way it made me feel. Like I wasn't a man who could take care of his boy. I'd never let anyone else take care of my boys.

And then the whole fucking thing went to shit. The stupid blonde bimbo managed to burn the cash. How does anybody manage to burn a bunch of fucking cash? I guess I should have expected it, that she'd fuck up some time, but her bag went up in smoke with the money inside it, and I lost it. I completely lost it. I do that sometimes, I just feel like I'm burning up from the inside out, and something has to come out. I can hear all of these words coming out of my mouth, everything I normally keep zipped inside, and it doesn't seem like me at all. Like I'm watching from the ceiling as this nutter goes completely apeshit. I can barely see, when I'm as angry as that. No one wants to get in my way, when I'm that angry.

Somewhere behind me, I sensed him.

"That's enough!" he yelled, trying to take hold of me, as she started to cry.

I held my hand up to him. He braced himself, but stood firm. But it was pointless. I'd burned my bridges, anyway. There'd be no more trips to Barcelona with the lovely PCSO after the things I'd just told her to her face.

I went back to the bar, to drink alone. Except I wasn't. That's the damn funny thing. I thought he'd run a mile, after what he'd just seen. After what I'd almost done. But he didn't. I sat and looked down at the whiskey in the glass, and I had no fucking clue what I was going to do to get that money, but I knew I had to. I was barely aware of a damn thing around me. Except him. He got it, he said. The pressure. He understood, what it made us do, looking out for our kids. He'd do anything, he said. Desperate men, doing desperate things. His voice was soft. Confidential.

"Bren," he said, "I'm worried about yer. What are you gonna do?"

I couldn't remember anyone ever saying that to me before. Ever. Strange.

"I'll get it sorted," I said, not looking at him. "I always do."

I felt sick of it, that night. Weary. If I could have walked away from it, the responsibility, I would have. But you just don't. I just don't. I take care of everything. It's what I do.

Eileen was piling the pressure on the next day. She needed to get back for the kids, so I needed the money fast. My head was aching for some peace. I pleaded with Chez to call a truce with Eileen, for the boys' sake. It just wasn't worth the ballache, them being at each other's throats. And god bless her, she swallowed her pride and did it, taking Eileen out for the day, though it was a kick in the gut that she had to be the one to buy my boys presents. It was hard enough, sharing control of everything with Cheryl. She made decisions that drove me insane. She'd already hired Mal to work some shifts behind the bar, just because she has a big heart and she felt sorry for him, and he was back in my face. But feeling like I couldn't be the man, take care of everyone, that was worse.

In the end, the only place to get my hands on money like that was the club's takings. I didn't want to do it. Being around Cheryl, I was starting to remember what a star she was. How good it was, to be looked at like that, like someone who could do no wrong, like Eileen had, maybe, once. But she'd be insured, and I had no choice. I singled out Rhys to take the cash to the night safe at the end of the shift, because he was pissing me off, frankly. I scoped out the security cameras, then all I had to do was wait, my face covered. It was a wild night, it felt like it was inside my head, running through my veins. He came down the steps, his hood up, and I just went for it. A whack to the back of the head, quick and easy, and he crumpled onto the ground. You have to gear yourself up to do it, hurt people, but the best thing to do is just go for it. And I was surprised by how easily he went down. Except then I found out why. I saw a glimpse of yellow hair, caught by the wind. I turned the body over. It was Cheryl. The stupid … I'd hurt her. I'd hurt her. Me. My sister.

The rest of the night was a bad dream. I had to stow the gloves and the money, and get her to hospital. She started to come round pretty fast, and I sat and held her hand and badgered the docs to tell me how she was. I knew she'd be OK really, but I needed to know. I needed her to be all right, to put this right somehow. I started thinking about how I'd make her feel like a princess, while she got over this. My chest was banging until they told me she was gonna be OK. After that, I rationalized. I had to do it. I had to. Desperate men, I remembered him saying, the day before. They do desperate things, don't they? I heard his voice in my head a lot, those days. There was something about it. Like he'd been around, but he was totally fucking innocent. I don't know how he did it. But there was another problem. She wasn't insured, she admitted to me, crying. Premiums too high after the last robbery. Fuck.

And in the morning, after no fucking sleep, someone hammering at the club door, and a face I knew, and it was never goodnews. Malachy Fisher. Arms folded, wanting to know what was going on.

And Stephen, just behind him.

"What? Well, is she all right?" He sounded shocked. I realised he really cared about her.

But it was Malachy I had more cause to worry about right now. He wanted to know why Cheryl had been on her own. Where I'd been. Why the CCTV hadn't picked anything up. Accusation in his voice. I watched Stephen harden, in front of my eyes.

"It was probably just some druggie, eh, Brendan?" Stephen said to me. "People'll do anything when they really need money." He walked past me and up the stairs, throwing me a look. Like he thought I'd brought this on her with the dealing. As if I'd ever let that happen to my own sister.

So I wasn't popular. Why would I care? I got the money to Eileen, like I said I would, like I always do, like I always have. She's always been a spender. I liked that, that I could give her what she needed, that she could rack up as much on credit as she wanted and the bills always got paid with a handful of cash. It meant she still had an obligation to me. I held the money back for a second.

"I appreciate you not telling Cheryl the real reason why we split, I really do," I said.

She got the message. Promised not to spill. The kids were the only thing that interested her now, she said. And no matter what I'd had to do to get the money, it mattered that she got it from me and no one else. Her mouth was full of this fucking Michael, how he was a "good guy", "honest", "solid." I winced. That's all very fucking well. Good guys don't get the fucking bills paid though do they? Wait til he sees the invoice, I thought. The kids loved him, she said. That hurt.

"For what it's worth, I never cared about any other woman," I told her. "That's the truth."

She looked sad for a second. It felt like a goodbye, like we were letting go hold of each other for good. I handed over the money. I guess she knew it was dodgy. She still took it, though. Money talks its own language.

It should have been sorted. I was ready to head back to the hospital, to Chez. But there was Mal again, playing cop, wanting to know where I'd been the previous night. I lied. Told him I was with Eileen. I knew she'd be gone soon enough, so there'd be no checking up on that.

"I'm not sure exactly where this is going, but I don't think Cheryl would like it," I told him. "Cheryl knows I'd do anything to protect her, and no one, including yourself, is gonna convince her otherwise."

He seemed strangely undisturbed.

"Maybe you should be more careful then who sees you with big wads of cash, yeah?" he said to me.

So I'd be seen. And I could guess who by. My eyes lifted to the club balcony, and there he was. The real problem. Stephen. Watching me. Always watching me. Seems like I was destined never to shake him off. Even when I wanted to.

I went to the club and lay in wait for him. Did some watching in my turn. He looked scared when he saw me. He hesitated, swallowing, his eyes cast down, his eyelashes fluttering as he moved behind the bar. He stroked his neck, nervous.

"I need to get on with that bar stock-take, me" he said, avoiding my eye contact.

"Stephen." Quiet. Low.

"It's not been done for a week, it's probably well off, you know." His breath was coming quick, irregular.

"What's on your mind, Stephen?"

He froze, his back to me. I noticed the way his hair was very short around the back, leaving his neck exposed. The light hair on the back of it, that you could stroke with the back of a finger, if you had a mind to. The shape of his head. The way they connected, sort of graceful.

"You got a problem?"

He turned around, his eyes cast down. His eyes hidden behind those long long fucking lashes.

"I saw you giving that money to Eileen," he said, giving it up without a fight.

I expect he thought he was in for a bollocking. That he was just waiting to be hurt again. Put down. But there's a time for that, and this wasn't it. Battering him would get me nowhere. Time for a new approach. Time to start drawing him in.

"What do you think about that?" I asked him.

"Well, what would you be thinking?"

I took a deep breath.

"I sold my wedding ring." He looked up. I held his gaze. "That's how I got the money. That's where I was when I said I was going to the hospital."

"Your wedding ring?" he said, softly, craning his head on one side to see my left hand. It was gone. I'd taken it off, after Eileen left. No point anymore, I could see that now. No going back.

"Well I had to get some money for Declan somehow. I'm not proud of it, that's why I didn't say anything."

He looked away, to one side, blinked. His mouth was … his mouth had these full, well-shaped lips.

"Right," he said. And I knew I had him, right there.

"You really think I could do that to my sister? How do you think I could look at myself in the mirror if I did that? Everything I do, everything, I do for my kids. OK, things didn't work out with me and Eileen, but … that doesn't mean I wouldn't do anything for them. I know you understand that."

He nodded now, getting it. Yeah, he was getting it.

"Course I do," he said. "I do. I'm the same." He looked at me.

I smiled. We were the same. We were. "When you have your kids, hard as it is, we've gotta keep our head above the water."

"I know," he said, and I knew he was feeling it. The weight of it, the shared responsibility. He was a good Dad. We were both trying to be.

"I'm not who you think I am, Stephen," I said. He looked at me, from under his brows. Unsure. "Malachy thinks I'm some kind of psycho. You … you probably do too. I'm not. I'm just a decent guy, trying to do right by his family. Hmm?"

He nodded, just slightly. Wary. But accepting. Or starting to be.

In the end, we had a drink together. Never done that before with him. Told him the thing about wanting to be a pilot. Funny, never told anyone that for a long time. Told him about the kids coming along.

"The only flying I got to do was the big aeroplane at dinner time," I told him.

He laughed. Not sure if I'd heard him laugh before. "Oh yeah," he said. "We all know that one."

I told him about drifting into other things.

"How though?" he asked me. "I mean, when did you start getting into things that you shouldn't have been into?"

He sounded like he wasn't sure he should be asking. Like he thought he was walking on a volcano that might blow at any moment. But I didn't lose my temper. Not this time. I didn't mind.

"Mouths to feed," I told him. "Toughened up because that was the only way to get by." I could see he understood. I looked at him. There was something so fucking vulnerable about him, it was painful. "You should do the same, Stephen. From what I can tell, people walk all over you." I couldn't have people keep trying to turn his head against me. I needed him to start believing in me for himself. And I thought he was getting there.

Not a moment too soon. Because Mal was there again, bursting in, shouting his mouth off, accusing me of putting Cheryl in the hospital. He was going to the police, he said. I just watched him let off steam. In the background, I could hear that Stephen was trying to butt in, defend me. It was a sweet feeling. And anyway, the whole thing was pointless. There was no proof. There was no trail that could leave back to me, I'd made damn sure of that.

I fired Mal. After everything, I just needed him off my back. Out of my life. With no Cheryl there to defend him, he was out of options. Whatever had been between us as kids, it was finished business now. Over and out.

So Mal was done with. Eileen was back in Belfast, with the kids. Declan would be on the mend soon, courtesy of the cash. And Stephen was … well, there was progress in that area. We were friends now. That's what he thought. Sure, I was still his boss, and I didn't let him forget it. I was the one who doled out the cash, after all, and I did. Call it a loyalty bonus. It was good, that he should know when to let things lie, leave them to me, and what he would get in return from me if he did. But I could see he was flattered by my confidence. That he was opening up. I just needed to work on that.

Funny how he started trading on it though, straight away, this connection we had.

"Brendan … " he said, practically the next day, and my heart sank. I just knew he was about to try my new-found patience.

And all of a sudden, he was talking about getting me to trial some new DJ. A mate of his. Ray.

"Ray," I said. "Ray. Never heard you mention him."

"She's been out of the picture for a while. She's kind of back now though, if you know what I mean." He laughed a bit. There was something in the tone of his voice. Bit of a buzz, maybe.

And I looked over his shoulder at this girl coming up the stairs. Blonde. Pretty. Young.

I sighed, putting two and two together. "Hiya," I said, weary.

Oh. Rae.


	9. Chapter 9

**Trouble**

**Part 9  
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"She's a pretty girl," I said, and he looked round at her and got this ridiculous goofy expression on his face. He practically licked his lips, with just a flicker of the tip of his tongue. He suddenly seemed incredibly young. My heart sank. So this was the next phase, then. The girl, elimination of. Alarm bells should have been ringing, right there and then. Turned out to be the trickiest of all.

"I'm not saying it's bad to be pretty, Stephen," I said, looking him in the eye, knowing that what I thought was starting to really matter to him now, "I'm sure she's got fellas bending over backwards for her."

I just had to sow some seeds of doubt. But he looked so crestfallen, I agreed to give her a listen. His face lit up. I guess that had to be reward enough for now.

She was OK, I guess, for a beginner. Hardly Fatboy Slim. But he was loving it, grooving away without a care in the world, shaking his tush like some oversexed monkey. I cut her off.

"Listen, I'm sure that … whatever … that was, sounds great in your bedroom, but you're not a professional, love. Not by a long way."

She got in a strop, obviously, which I expected, because I was fucking rude to her. Called me a creep. Stormed out. It had to be done. He had to see what kind of girl she was. Emotional. Unreliable. That she wasn't all that. I was gonna come to regret that, later, that I was that harsh. That I made her hate me, right from the start. I don't do regrets but, yeah, I maybe coulda handled that better. But I didn't realise that then. She was gone, so it was mission accomplished as far as I was concerned.

"Oh, great, yeah, thanks," he said, turning to me. "You've ruined any chance I'm ever gonna have with her." He was seriously cranky. I just had to talk him round.

"Yeah, well," I said, turning towards him, close, "you can thank me later."

"And how do you work that out?" Jeez, he was angry. His eyes blazed.

"Well … out of the picture a while, you said. Now you're working here and she's back, c'mon, she's only sniffing around so she can get a gig." My voice was low, persuasive. He was looking right into my face. His mouth just inches away.

"That's not even Rae, though, she's not like that," he protested.

"Aw, don't be a mug all your life Stephen," I said, taking hold of the edges of his club hoodie, straightening him out, smoothing it down over his thin shoulders as he stood in front of me and just let me run my hands over him, lightly. "She's trash. You can do better than that. Yeah?" He gazed at me, his arched brows drawn together, pretty but dumb. When it came to this stuff anyway. Relationships. He looked baffled. Like it had never occurred to him that he might be out of anyone's league, that he might not have to fall in with the first person who threw him a smile and a bit of affection. That he might deserve something better. Someone. That there might be someone a whole lot better for him.

I grinned, and patted him on the cheek. And left him to think on.

I thought I'd cracked it. But I can't be everywhere, all the time. Next thing I knew, the bar was deserted and he was schlepping up the stairs, dragging his feet the way he does, and presenting himself for duty in the rankest yellow check shirt I'd ever seen in my life. For a moment, I was speechless. Even me. It was migraine-inducing, like you needed shades to protect you from it, or something. He looked ridiculous. And yet … I was amused. It was … kinda endearing. I just couldn't stop myself. I smiled.

"Why didn't I get the memo?"

"About what?" he asked, gormless.

"Didn't realise it was eighties night," I said to him, nodding at the shirt.

"Ur, what you on about," he said, offended, plucking at the front of the offence against fashion, "this shirt's decent." I just … I don't know. He just made me want to laugh. I don't even know why.

"Yeah," I said. "For crossing the road when it's dark."

And I watched self-doubt creep across his face. He didn't want to look like a muppet, he said.

"Why change the habit of a lifetime," I said, teasing him. It was becoming like a sport, teasing Stephen. I was getting particularly good at it.

"Thanks," he said, confused. I don't think he even knew at that point what he was thanking me for.

But then he told me where he was going. A "hot date." Goofy expression, again.

"What about your shift?" I asked him, deadpan.

"Yeah," he came back at me, "you said I could work the later one."

"No, I didn't." It was like a cat, playing with a mouse. And he was a bundle of fun to play with.

He exploded, just as I knew he would. "Yeah, you did! You did!" He held out his hands to me, in appeal. "You said if I worked tomorrow then I could work the later …" He finally caught hold of the smile on my face. His face changed. Half a laugh.

"Yeah, you're really funny, aren't ya?"

"Yeah," I said, "ain't I just?" I can't really explain why I teased him the way I did. Or the way it made me feel, when he responded to it. I just couldn't resist going there.

It wasn't for me though, the effort he'd gone to. It was for the girl. Looked like it was Round Two to Rae, her turn to get in a punch, turning up right at that second and telling him he looked snazzy in that muppet shirt he was so proud of. He was triumphant.

I tried the same tack. She was using him, I told him.

"Yeah?" he said, uncertainty crossing his face for a moment. Then back at me. Cracked a massive smile. "Well, I think you're wrong." And he scooped up his jacket and was gone.

Next couple of hours, I felt like I was counting the minutes. When he came back from his amazing hot date, I was waiting. I couldn't tear my eyes away as they stood and talked on the stairs. Serious. Close. I called him over to get back to work. I didn't want to see that go any further than it already had. I seriously did not need to see that.

I asked him if she'd brought up the job again, dropped a heavy one that she was twisting him round her little finger, but Christ, he was pig-headed.

"I just think she's a good DJ, what's the problem?" he said, frustrated.

"Nothing, mate," I said, casual, withholding approval. "You carry on."

But it seemed like one date had made him as feisty as he was pig-headed. "I will," he said, with this cocky smile all over his face. "I really like her." And he waltzed off.

I felt like he was slipping out of my control, just as I had him in my sights. I don't even know why it was so fucking important. It's not like I couldn't just have moved on, let him get on with it. Waited for the next opportunity. He should have been nothing. Beautiful, yeah, in his way, but trivial, and always just out of fucking reach, it seemed like. But it just mattered. It even mattered enough to put in a call to an old mate. We hadn't parted on the best of terms. But she was usually available for the right price. And the price was, withdraw my witness statement about the charity money. Plus a few extra notes.

Veronica. Come dressed to pull, I said. She didn't disappoint. His tongue was practically hanging out, as she came up the stairs, his eyes on sticks. And she played the part so well. Frowning into her phone. She'd been abandoned by a mate, stuck on the motorway, she said. I told her I'd leave her in the hands of Chester's finest barman, and he lapped it up. Seriously, he was just so easy to play sometimes, it hurt. And she knew how to play this tune for him, note-perfect, so I left them to it and went to find the adorable Rae. She was angry, obviously, but I told her I wanted to give her another shot. Told her I'd made a mistake. Ate some humble pie. Flattered her. Said a woman DJ would be good for business, she'd be doing it for the sisters. Worked a charm. We shook on it. She followed me back to the club, like I always knew she would.

And there was Stephen, purring like a cat, his face stuck into Veronica. His little DJ friend stopped dead. Her face was like stone.

"Oh no," I said, with barely concealed delight, "you don't actually like him for real, do you?"

Her face said yes. Not so stroppy now, girlie.

Stephen panicked when he saw her. "It's not what it looks like," he said. As if anyone actually says that. "I don't even know her!"

But Rae was out the door. Knew when she was beaten, and that round was unquestionably mine. Sensible girl. And Veronica was gone, out the back door, leaving Stephen back on his lonesome, punch drunk, not even knowing what just happened.

Unfortunately, he found out. Some of it, anyway. Veronica turned up downstairs, demanding her payout. We settled it amicably this time. I don't like to make enemies unless I have to – way too dangerous. She asked me what it had all been about, the thing with Stephen.

"Protecting him," I said.

"What from?" she asked me.

Everything that isn't me, I thought.

"None of your business," I told her. And she was gone.

But it was too late. I'd got careless, and he'd heard the whole thing. Came down the stairs. His face more serious than I'd seen. Braver.

"What's goin' on?" he asked me.

I ignored him. Asked him if he wanted a night cap and walked right on past. But then there was a hand on my arm. He'd never done that before, reached out a hand to me. Shame it was in anger.

"No," he said, pulling me round to face him. He was stronger than he looked. "You know that woman, don't you?"

"What woman?" If in doubt, face it out. Something else I've learned.

"I saw yer! Pretending like you've never even met her before?" He was angry, confused.

"It's not as simple as that." There was nothing simple about this. I don't even know if I understood it myself really. It just had to happen. He just couldn't see it yet. But he would.

"Yeah, well I don't get it," he said, defiant. "Why are you trying to destroy me and Rae?"

I looked down into his face. Into his eyes. Wondered if he could see into the inside of my head. A place I never let anyone see. And what he'd say if he knew what I was thinking when I looked at him. What I was feeling. What I'd done, a couple of times, when I was on my own, thinking about him, the turn of his neck, the flex of his back, the curve of his arse, small and round and tight. What he'd feel, in return, if he knew.

I said nothing.

The next day was a challenge. I had Danny Houston about to descend to inspect his investments. I'd tried to put him off, but when he decides on something, he does it. I don't scare easy, but it made me jumpy, the thought of him there. Checking out the place. The staff. I felt like a bear with a sore head as I came into the club.

And I caught him on the phone to her again, Rae. Leaving messages, trying to get her to call him back. Felt something snap. A flash of anger. I snatched the phone out of his hand.

"I don't pay you to make booty calls," I said.

He was outraged. Almost amusingly. "Ew, I wasn't."

"I could hear your tongue dragging on the floor," I said, "Have some self-respect." It was harsh. But he needed to hear it.

"You what?"

"Now you can have this back when I'm convinced you're not letting a scrubber like Rae give you the run-around. Yeah?"

"No – Brendan – I need that phone!"

"No. You need to work for me." I waved the phone in his face. "Phone calls are for break time."

I felt myself getting seriously annoyed with him. He seemed to have an ability to get right under my skin that I couldn't really explain. It was the nearest we'd come to blows for a while. Like a proper fight. And it had been going so fucking sweetly. I tried to walk away, before any more damage was done. But he caught my arm.

"Is it cos you fancy 'er? Eh? Cos what else would your problem with Rae be?"

Fancy her. Fancy. Her. I couldn't even …. It would have been laughable if it wasn't so fucking annoying. So that was how he made sense of what was happening. It was logical, I guess. But offensive.

"Me? Fancy Rae?" His eyes were scanning my face, looking for clues. He nodded. Insane idea. "Are you being serious?"

"Yeah," he said, his eyes challenging me and his mouth open.

I turned to the bar. Jacqui was there. This was what people did, right? I shouted across to her. Come to lunch with me and Danny. Right in front of him. She was bloody cocky about it, but she said yes. And when I turned back to him, I could see it had had the right effect. His eyes were narrowed, mouth pulled together in a pout, chin thrust up. Yeah, I knew that expression. Even if he didn't know what it was yet. But he didn't like it, that was for sure.

"I don't date schoolkids," I said to him. And walked off.

I tossed him his tatty phone back though, over my shoulder. I think I'd made my point. And I was sick of being the bad guy, always out of tune with him.

In the village, I saw his ex, the lovely Amy, over by the cashpoint looking like she was carrying the weight of the world. I could guess what that was about. They were always struggling, those two. Two kids to feed, Amy starting college, and I didn't pay Stephen that much. Why would I? I preferred to hand out bonuses when it suited me. But an idea formed in my head. She was the one he really cared about, surely. The mother of his kids. That was where the connection was, where his heart lay. Not with some girl he'd barely dated. And with Amy, there was nothing else, and that made it safe. I thought I could play them off against each other, her and this Rae. See which way he jumped. Follow his dick, or honour his commitments.

I arranged to accidentally bump into her. She still liked me, at least. Made a change from the less-than-delightful hostility of the less-than-delightful Rae. I asked her how she was. She didn't want to admit it, but in the end, she spilled. They were hard up. She was dropping out of her course, she said. Some problem with her student loan. She needed work, asked if I could give her some shifts. Unfortunately for her, that's the last thing I wanted, her hanging around him while he was working for me. I let her down gently about the work. Again. I had a better idea, but I couldn't share it yet.

Dinner was as bad as I expected. Danny was … unchanged. A bit wider maybe. Like he'd swelled on his own fucking sense of self-importance. The only good thing about it was keeping him away from the club for a day or so more. He had people to catch up with first, he said. And the brassy charms of Jacqueline McQueen, usually about as yielding as a Sherman Tank, kept him off my back for a bit. He was all over her. It made me look like a eejit, in one way, but it was the lesser of two evils right then. She kept him sweet. An operator, that one, knew not to smack a gift horse in the teeth. But my head was banging, and my face ached from fixing a fucking grin for two hours. And coming back from the meal, first thing I saw was Stephen. Sitting on his arse. Texting Rae. Again. I nearly lost it.

"Chase scrubbers in your own hours, not mine," I told him, swiping it out of his hands. He was seriously getting on my nerves now. Tossed his phone down onto the bar top, heard it skitter, heard him cry out in annoyance.

He practically chased me across the club.

"Brendan!" he started.

"Not interested," I said, cutting him off, trying to get in to the office. Away from him, I guess. He was doing my head in.

"Who do you think you are, keep talking to me like that?" His voice was high, and angry.

I span around to face him. Put my face right up close into his. Less than inches. Millimetres. Held my hands up to stop him in his tracks. He shrank back, his eyes wide.

"I'm your boss," I hissed at him. "I can talk to you any way I like. OK?"

He looked right into my eyes. His mouth, turned down. His bottom lip, full. I could hear his breathing, heavy. Something seemed to buzz in the air between us. Part of me wanted to push him away, be done with the whole fucking thing. And at the same time, I felt a desire to stroke his face that was so overwhelming it almost ate me up. And I just couldn't fucking stop looking at his mouth.

I got a grip. Focussed. Dug out some more cash from my pocket. A nice big roll. Held it up, right under his nose, for him to smell it.

"There you go," I said, as he looked at it, confused.

"What's that?" His eyes, cast down now, covered by those lashes.

"It's a loan. So Amy doesn't have to quit college."

He looked up at me now. His lips parted.

"I'll take a small payment out of your pay cheque each week. You won't even notice."

He looked out at me from under heavy lids. Suspicious. I could see he doubted me. Was wondering what he might have to do for it, maybe. His face was half lit by the red lights of the club, half in shadow.

"And Amy doesn't have to give up on her dream," I said. "Hmm?" I slapped the cash against his chest, felt his ribcage reverberate under my touch. He just looked down at it. At the money, in my hand, against his chest. Then he closed his hand over mine, just for a second, to take the money, and I pulled mine back.

"Thanks," he muttered, his brows knitted together. Those beautiful, arched brows. I watched his chin sink. He looked miserable, actually. Maybe his pride was hurting, the way mine was when Eileen was pressurizing me, and I couldn't provide, and I felt less of a fucking man because of it.

"Hey," I said softly, and whistled through my teeth to get him to look up at me. When he did, his eyes seemed to burn into me, still holding me at a distance.

"I like you Stephen," I told him. "You remind me of me. You know, a decent guy, looking out for his kids' best interests."

"Yeah, well I am," he said, very softly, the words coming sincerely, from his chest.

I still fought the desire to touch him. I held my fingers close to his face, suspended. Fought, hard, to recover my patience. That's what I needed with him. Infinite patience.

"I know. But someone like Rae isn't in their best interests." His eyes dipped, again. It wasn't what he wanted to hear, I knew that. "Do the right thing," I said to him, holding him with my eyes. "Look after Amy."

I let that sink in. Surely, he could see that. The mother of your kids has to come first. Priorities. Eventually, I let myself touch his cheek. I laughed, short. A kind of release. And then I left him.

I knew nothing was sorted this time. It seemed to be unravelling. The whole thing was turning into a major pain in the ass. Danny due to come in the week after. Stephen still hanging around for this girl, as if she was something special. I knew I should probably abandon it, walk away now. But somehow, I just couldn't let it go. I'd invested a lot of time in this, already. And I always expect a return on my investment.

Sitting along in my office, my head buzzing, my phone rang. Number unrecognised. I picked up the call.

"Hello?"

"Hello, Brendan."

Ulster accent. Soft. Curious. Cocky. Male. Macca.

"Long time no hear," his voice, arch.

"What do you want?"

He was just catching up, he said. How were things?

"Fine. Yeah. Fine." I could barely get the words out through my jaw, it was set like rock.

Great, he said, his voice still fluid, neutral. Because he was planning to make a trip.

"A trip. Right."

Yeah, he said. The UK. Hadn't been over for a while. Felt a need for a change of scene.

The UK.

"What would you want to do that for?"

That was nice, he said. No invitation to stay? What would Cheryl say? A tease. A challenge, in his tone.

"Cheryl doesn't need to know," I said. "Don't come here."

But he was curious, he said, to see this club he'd heard so much about. See who I was hanging with these days.

"What's that supposed to … look, don't come here." I felt everything start to slide. The whole fucking day. The last few weeks. Everything. Running away from me. Out of my hands.

Bit late, he said, he'd packed in his job. He might look for work, actually, when he got here. Stay on. What was I afraid of?

No. No, no, no.

"You've no idea, coming here with …"

It's not like we'd done anything to be ashamed of, he said. He wasn't ashamed of it. He still thought about it.

"Listen … listen … don't come here …"

He just thought we might have some stuff to talk over, he said. As I'd left in such a hurry.

"Don't come here or I'll …"

He was thinking maybe the next week, he said. He could get a good deal on the ferry.

"If you get on that ferry, I will personally … Hello?"

I looked at the phone. Dead.

"OK," I said. To the phone. To him. To God. To whoever.

And then I destroyed it. Smashed it against the wall. I think I heard a howling sound. It was coming from me. And then I trashed the desk, the office. Everything went flying. I span around. And there he was. Stephen. Standing there in the door. The one I wanted, but I couldn't fucking well have, it seemed like. It felt for a moment that it was driving me to the brink of insanity.

He looked scared, wide-eyed.

"What?" I asked him.

His mouth opened and closed, like a fish.

"Speak idiot!" I screamed at him.

He still didn't run. "Just to let you know my shift's finished now," he said, his voice shaking.

"So?" I was still shouting, I could hear it. I picked up a file. "Get out of my sight!" I yelled, lifting it. And watched him disappear and pull the door shut behind him, fast, taking him out of my view.

I had to get away. The whole thing was toxic. When I'd started it, I'd controlled every move. Suddenly, the whole thing was a big fucking mess. And Cheryl was due back from the spa where I'd sent her for some TLC, so she could take over at the club. Usually, I'd have headed home to see the kids when I needed some headspace. Specially with Declan getting his treatment. But Macca was there, and the last thing I wanted was to bump into him. So I booked a business trip. That's what I told Cheryl, anyway. It was partly true. Only Liverpool. To check out some clubs. Catch up with some old contacts. One particular contact maybe. A lad from Glasgow. Usually amenable. I just needed to get my mojo back. I needed to get back on top. Seemed like the best way of doing it.

It worked, I'll say no more than that. I came back a few days later feeling like nothing could beat me. Full of beans. Determined to have what was mine, and for nothing and no one to get in the way. And then Chez was there, in the club, back to her old self. She opened her arms.

"The wanderer returns!" she said, giving me her best hug. She looked and felt great.

It was all good. I was rolling with it. I was Brendan Brady. I was back.

But then, "Close your eyes," she said, mysterious.

"Come again," I said, uneasy.

"I've found something that's gonna make you feel at home," she said. "Close your eyes!"

"What am I, five?" She's always done this, teased, played games. She's hard to deny.

"Close them."

I rolled them first. Behind me I heard crates, clinking. Stephen. Was this something to do with him? I humoured her, played along. Until she said, "Open. Surprise!"

I opened my eyes, a smile on my face. And there he was.

Macca.

"How's it goin' Brendan?"

What the fuck. What the FUCK. I told him not to come. I told him. I felt ice freeze my insides.

"Good!" I said. "Good! You?" The smile was tight, rigid now on my face.

I reached out my hand and took his. Shook it. Hard.

"What are you doing here?"

He just fancied a change, he said. Cheryl had offered him a job, so here he was.

Unbelievable. Unbe-fucking-lievable. I looked at her for confirmation. She rattled away about us all going off on some team-building thing together, some crappy student play that her mate was in. Was she mad? I held on to his hand. Crushed it in my grip. He tried not to wince, visibly. Then she took him off to help her.

"It's good to see you, Brendan," he said, his face soft, inscrutable.

"You too, mate," I said, my voice just a bit too loud. "I'll talk to you later, yeah?"

So that was the next stage then. Get rid of my …what? Ex? I don't even know what he was to me. An impediment, I guess. A just cause and impediment. He should never have come. He'd put himself in the middle of something he couldn't understand. He'd have to go. Fast. I couldn't wait much longer. I wouldn't wait.

Every moment he was around my sister, I was on hot plates. I opened a beer and sank it, to steady my nerves. Luckily, I had the thing with Jacqui for cover, Chez was convinced I was the last of the red hot lovers, and she was back on form, letting everyone know I had a girlfriend. I didn't contradict it.

But there was Macca, coming to stand beside me, his arms resting on the bar. I didn't want to look at him. But I couldn't really help but hear him.

"I've gotta be honest," he said, "you don't look that pleased to see me."

Was he joking? What did he think there was here for him?

"What do you want?" I asked him, staring at my beer. "Money?"

"You've got a very low opinion of me, Brendan," he said, in that lilting voice. It made me laugh, once. Once. "When did that happen?"

I turned to face him. Hazel eyes. Fine brown hair. I don't know when that happened. But there was nothing there I wanted now. Nothing.

"I told you not to come here, and you did." I just don't get why they never listen. I'd always told him, he just had to do as I said, and it'd all be fine. And now he hadn't, and it wasn't.

Behind his shoulder I saw Jacqui and Rhys coming back together. I felt something was called for. She asked me how my trip was.

"Good," I told her. Bent over. Quick kiss on the cheek. Think it was convincing.

Cheryl fell for it, anyway.

"Ahhh," she said, coming over, "I never thought our Brendan would find love again, especially after finding his missus in bed with that other bloke, and in their own bed, the filthy cow …"

I stared at her. She ground to a halt. God knows, I love my sister, but sometimes, she just does not know when to keep it shut. I could have killed her. Not literally, but yeah. Anyone else, I'd have killed them, right there. "Sorry," she said, looking embarrassed. Then changed the subject on to this fucking godawful play thing.

My eyes stayed locked onto Jacqui. I knew something wasn't right. She wasn't buying any of it, this thing, her and me. It wasn't working. And it always worked. I needed to figure out why.

So Chez dragging us all off to this bonding thing in the SU. I made sure I was next to Jacqui. Slipped my arm round her. "You OK?" I asked her.

"Yeah," she said, "yeah, why wouldn't I be?" But her arms were folded across her chest, defensive. And I was running out of ammo. Usually I have no problem with the women. For a second, I wondered if there was something she knew. If she'd sensed it. If it was something to do with Macca, a vibe, just him being there. I dismissed it. There was no way. But she was fucking harder work than her sister had been, at any rate.

There was only one thing in that room that really interested me, anyway. Macca and Stephen, standing together near to the bar. The first time I'd seen Stephen since I got back. The comparison between them hit me in the gut. Something tightened inside at the sight of them standing so close.

I dropped a few hints to Cheryl. He was a nice lad, Macca, but we were overstaffed. And he wasn't reliable. Just to get her thinking. And then this fucking play started.

The end could not come soon enough. In fact, if it had ended two minutes before it started, it could not have come soon enough. Afterwards, I watched Stephen go to the front to congratulate Amy on her starring role, though it seemed more of a curse than a blessing. At least Macca wasn't with him, anyway. I'd watched him slip out early. I followed him out on the terrace, where he was sinking a sneaky pint. He was leaning against the railing, gazing up at the sky, his eyes slightly narrowed. He looked thoughtful. Almost a shame to disturb him. But there was no one else around. I decided it was time to move.

"That's an hour of my life I'll never get back," he joked, as he saw me approach. Gave me a half smile. I felt a returning twitch. He always had a sense of humour, did Macca. For a moment, I remembered why I'd liked him. Seemed like a long long time ago. Long time. A life time. And it was only a couple of months. But things change.

I looked around, and then down into his face. "You got a second?"

"Yeah," he said, smiling up at me, "what's up?" I'd almost forgotten how small he was.

I reached over and took the glass out of his hand, gently. Put it down. "We need to talk," I said.

He looked expectant. Hopeful.

"Not here," I said. "Walk with me."

And he came with me, good as gold. I'm not sure what he was expecting, going off with me like that, but it wasn't what he got. But he really gave me no choice. I'd given him every chance, but he just wouldn't listen. I had to show him that he had to listen. And that he had to stay away. From me. And from everyone I cared about.

I didn't want to do it. I didn't want to have to shout at him. I didn't want to have to throw him against the wall. I didn't want to have to hold him so hard he bruised and yelped and looked scared. I didn't want to have to keep shouting at him, but he kept saying it wasn't over. I didn't want to have to break his ribs with a few well-placed punches that I couldn't completely control, but he mentioned a name (_"Are you with Ste? Is that it?"_) and they seemed to keep coming for longer than I really meant them to. I didn't want to watch him sink to the floor, almost unconscious with the pain. I didn't want to hear the guttural noises that came out of his mouth as he struggled for breath, and blood and saliva came out of his mouth. I didn't want to have to call the ambulance, when he couldn't get up. I didn't want any of that. I only meant to scare him. He should have done what he was told. He knew the score.

I went back to the club and washed the last traces of him from my hands. He was over and done with.

I told Chez that he went back to Ireland. Some urgent business. She was amazed. "You're kidding me," she said, disappointed.

"Told you he was unreliable," I said.

* * *

><p>So, finally. Finally, I felt like my way was clear. After the wives and the girlfriends and the kids and the business and the baggage from home. After all that, it was an open road. He was like me, Stephen, he knew that now. That everything I did, I did for my family. That if he was loyal, did as he was told, he would be rewarded. That if he wasn't, and he betrayed my trust, he would be punished. That there was no one, other than me, who he could rely on. Not Amy. Not Rae. That no one, <em>no one<em>, could give him what I could give him. Just me. Only me.

Finally, I felt that he was ready.


	10. Chapter 10

_OK, I am on a bit of a roll here! I'm posting this now because I've had some time to write over Christmas, but I'm getting busy again, so there'll be a wait for the next one, sorry. I loved loved loved rewatching these episodes, and this was the result. Thanks so much to the people who left me comments._**  
><strong>

**Trouble**

**Part 10**

So. It began. The final phase. The game of cards. The gamble. And the dance. Three days. There's a lot a man can do in three days. A man like me, anyway.

And the first step was the game of cards.

I'll say one thing; he really didn't seem to know when he was beaten, with this Rae girl. He was a trier, at least. She was still gagging for it, he told me, one morning. The sun was falling half across his face, so we must have been under some trees. I only remember standing there, looking down into his face. Man to man, in his eyes, anyway. Felt like the end of summer. That feeling, one thing ending, another one cracking off. He said he'd been playing it cool. Seemed to think he'd got that one from me. "Worked a right treat," he said. "Me luck's in tonight." His face, comical, leery, obscene, pushed right into mine. I guessed he must have seen her, then.

"Well, that's a shame," I said. And watched his smile fade. His eyes widen.

"What is?"

Told him about the poker session, at Carl's. "Thought you might like to come along." I didn't tell him that wasn't the only game we would be playing. Watched the lines of his face soften with expectation. His lips open. He had a couple of tiny moles on his right cheek, and on the side of his neck. Funny what you notice. Tiny brown moles.

"You want me to play?" he sort of exploded with gratification.

I'd built him up, just to let him back down. But gently. I wanted him to run the bar, I told him. He looked disappointed.

"Hey," I said, keeping it casual, "if you want to run after Rae, that's your problem," and I started to walk away.

"No!" he said, stopping me, the way I knew he would, grabbing my arm. I turned back to face him. His skin, sort of golden. "I can see Rae any time," he said. Bingo.

"You sure?" I asked him. And he nodded, eager. His eyes, locked on mine. Blue grey. Wanting this. Needing it. Needing me.

And that was that. I walked into that pub with Stephen just behind my shoulder. Bit of swagger in his hips. Man, he could strut when he was feeling pleased with himself. Or when he thought I was pleased with him. No problem getting Carl to let him work the bar. A moment's hesitation, maybe, but the joy of Stephen is, for all his hustling, no one would suspect him of a damn thing. He just doesn't look bright enough to try. And this guy Jack, the bar manager, was happy enough. Ex-copper, I heard, but had been through a few local difficulties of his own. Tony was there, guy who ran the fancy restaurant. Stephen's old boss, bit down on his luck, I'd say. Easy pickings, was what I thought, from the look of him.

He was lapping it up, Stephen, giving them some backchat. One of the guys. I took him aside. Explained the game we were playing, and the game was, stack the deck. He wasn't just topping up the drinks. He was letting me know who was for real, and who was front. He shook his head. "No," he said, "it's cheatin." Like I said, a righteous little fucker, this one. I told him it was just tipping the odds in our favour. He looked slow. Reluctant. "I'm sure Leah and Lucas would appreciate the money," I said, "even if you don't." That got him. He was in. And once he was in, I knew there'd be no backing out.

And whaddya know? He was good at it, once he gave it a chance. I watched him, out of the corner of my eye, hovering behind the others. A smile on his face. Satisfaction, at doing what he'd been told. His eyes, hidden behind those long fucking lashes. Biting his lower lip, his tongue running along it from time to time. We had a system. My fingers. His eyes and mouth. Call and response. It seemed to work. In the end, I went all in. I always do, when the time's right. I don't play for low stakes, never have done. If something's worth going for, you go all in for it. Specially when you've done the spadework and you're pretty damn sure you're gonna get what you came for anyway. The enjoyment's that bit sharper when you've sweated for it. Jack showed. Three jacks. Costello folded. Tony was out with a pair of Queens, but then he had unlucky written through him like a stick of rock. And I … I had a straight. "You've done it!" I heard him yelping, in the background, Stephen, while Carl clapped, slow. Amazing what you can do, with a little help.

Tony wanted to go again right there, classic loser, but Carl was all for cooling it down. I headed for the bar, where Stephen was waiting with full glasses.

"That's brilliant!" he said to me, this goofy grin all over his face, "we're gonna wipe em out, aren't we?"

I had to tell him to take it easy. Calm him down a bit. But he was buzzing.

"I've had the best night of me life!" he said, his eyes popping with excitement. I felt a slow heat, in response. There was better on the way, I thought.

"Glad you're enjoying yourself," I said to him, and wandered off, the expression on his face imprinted on my mind, and a sense of anticipation in my groin that I had to walk away to hide.

And the next day, the gamble. Raising the stakes. New players. Same game.

I had him down in the cellar that morning, doing some sweeping up. He seemed like he was walking on air, went down without a murmur, though it was about the crappiest job I could throw at him. I just wanted him somewhere quiet, where I had him to myself. The cellar seemed to fit the bill. I watched him, bent over, sweeping. The curve of his back. The muscles in his arms, what there was of them, because I could have fitted my thumb and index finger around his biceps.

"Enjoy yourself, last night, did ye?" I asked him.

He looked up. Grinned. Bit his lip, maybe just a bit shy at the attention. "Mm," he said. I don't know if we'd ever been on such good terms. He unbent and came over, teasing. "I can't believe no one even sussed you were cheating!"

"Hey," I said to him, soft, because I couldn't have him shooting his mouth off, "I told you. It wasn't exactly cheating. That system of yours still needs some work, but we're gonna keep that between us, yeah?"

I held him with my eyes. He nodded, eager. Smiling. I cupped his face, brief, with my hand. "Good lad," I said. I felt like he was already almost in the palm of that hand, anyway. I sent him back to work. But his phone rang. He held it up, laughed, a bit rueful. I had his full confidence now, I knew it. I laughed along. "Someone you're avoiding?"

"Mmmhmm," he said. Then caught his breath. "Only cos you told me to, though."

The penny dropped. Rae. Still Rae. Calling him. She just wouldn't stop fucking calling him. This was getting awkward. Mean time, he was laughing like a monkey. "Talk about treat em mean, keep em keen," he said, dancing about, grinning right in front of my face.

"She's too young for you, Stephen."

His face clouded, unsure. "Nah."

"If you want someone out of your life, you do whatever - _whatever_ it takes, to get shot. Simple as."

He giggled, like it was a joke. "I don't want 'er out of my life though, do ah?"

I found myself looking at his lips, forming the words. I turned the gum over in my own mouth. I could do so much, so much, with that mouth. "You sure about that?" I asked him, soft, low, almost ready to enjoy him right then. But he was clueless.

"Yeah," he said, "Play it cool, and she'll come running, that's what you said, so … that's what I'm doing."

He looked so pleased with himself, I could have hit him. I turned and left it. It needed some thought. But he stopped me.

"Although, um," he sounded awkward, "I've kind of invited her to the club tonight, just to hang out." He shook his head, trying to make it sound like nothing. "Only for a bit," he said. Knowing I thought he was making a mug of himself. But still doing it. Still.

I told him it better not interfere with his work. That I'd be keeping an eye on him. And I left him down there, knowing that whatever he'd had with me, had been taken away. I could sense his mood falling as I walked up the stairs. Some satisfaction in that, anyway.

And then, later the same day, there was Danny. Danny Houston. Standing in the club. My club. Talking to Stephen at the bar. I steeled myself. I'd been hoping he'd back off, not bother with the full inspection, but I went in with the gladhand, the happy face. I needed this to go well. Danny bankrolled the whole thing. I needed him to give it the OK, and then fuck off and leave me to it. I just needed him happy, and gone.

He was happy, enough, anyway. He'd come for Jacqui, it turns out. I'd found out what the deal was with her. Why she hadn't bought it, her and me. And it turns out she'd been seeing him, behind my back. I had no idea what she fucking saw in him, except the money, but I didn't care. I only cared that I lost face, so I gave her a warning. And I'd lost my cover, for what it was worth. And with Danny around, it was worth a lot.

And then there was this Rae, again, turning up to mess with Stephen's head. I had to keep one eye on Danny, and the other on her. I could see Stephen doing his best to play it cool. It wasn't totally convincing, the little schmuck. He was into her, it was written all over him. I needed something I could throw back at him, and give me some cover with Danny. Kill two birds with one stone, as they say. Luckily, there was one right there. A bird. Some posh student girl, looking pissed off at the end of the bar. She got up to leave. I stopped her. "You off?"

Her mates had stood her up, she said. Perfect. I had her with another drink in her hand, and eating out of mine, in seconds. More amenable than Jacqui, anyway. Then she started talking. Not so perfect. I watched Stephen make a fool of himself with his DJ at the bar, couldn't stop watching, while this India talked and talked about her poor little rich girl problems. I barely heard a word. She hadn't lived. She was an irrelevance.

I watched Rae disappear to the ladies. Watched Stephen watch her go. Watched his tongue hang out, almost literally, thinking about what might be on the cards. I couldn't stay away. I walked over. He was on top of the world.

"Oh mate," he said, "your plan, it's been a complete success! It's like, the less into her I seem, the more desperate she is to hang around."

If I taught him that, I should have shot myself, right there. But then he was asking about me and the student girl. So I played him at his own game.

"You know," I said, casual, "not a bad looking girl. Who knows, maybe we'll both get lucky tonight."

He flashed me a grin, and pumped his fist. Funny that. Because right at that moment, I could have put mine through the wall. But it's when the game isn't going your way that you most need to hold your nerve.

Danny started talking about going on somewhere, after hours. A casino. I went along with it, knowing the lovebirds were together on the edge of my field of vision. She walked out ahead of him.

"Shame you can't go," I said, turning to him as he brushed past me, took him by surprise, held him back.

Immediately, he thought he was missing out on some fun.

"Aw," he whined, "why can't ah?"

"It's Rae," I said, "she wouldn't get in. She looks way too underage." I was thinking on my feet, here. I tried not to look at him, his wide eyes, his open mouth, the gulping Adam's apple in his throat, not with Danny standing right there, only inches away, his dead eyes taking in the whole fucking thing.

He tried to protest, but I cut him off. "I'm telling yer, she'd cause us hassle we don't need. Up to you, mate." I turned it back to him.

He looked sullen. His mouth turned down, pouting. His eyes, disappointed. He shrugged, and gave in. "Fair enough," he said. And I sent him off to break the news to Rae. Flashed Danny a grin. All guys, together, right? Nothing wrong with that. Didn't want him thinking Stephen was something special. Danny lifted his glass to me, chinked, and drank. His eyes looked at me, over the top. He smiled. Smug. Christ, I hated his fucking smug smile. Always had.

So now all I had to do was ditch the student. But she had her uses. I gave her a bit of a squeeze, a kiss on the top of the head, called her sweetheart. In front of Danny. Introduced her to him. Then she started to get a bit above herself.

"So … casino?" she said.

"Yeah," I said, my eyes on Stephen, behind the bar. Unaware. Oblivious. Enticing. I already had my company lined up for the night, right there. I didn't need her getting in the way. "Sorry, love, we're gonna make this a foursome, yeah?"

She was taken aback. "Right, well …"

"I'll catch ye again," I said, turning a shoulder. Brutal, I guess, but some girls really don't get the hint. "We're gonna head off in a bit," I said, directing myself at Stephen. He seemed to have got over his lovers' tiff, anyway.

"Great," he said, giving me a double thumbs up, like a kid. I watched him go, as he went to get his jacket. The way his hips moved, narrow. Knowing he was mine for the night, for the first time.

Probably a good job Danny was distracted by Jacqui, giving it a bit of flirt with some punter. I watched him go mental at her, grabbing her arm. Not much scares her, Jacqui, but she looked scared for a second. I did nothing. I despised him, hurting a woman. But I did nothing. I needed her to keep him on side. She could stand her ground, anyway. Gave it right back to him. And I could see it turned him on, to be honest. I'd never really thought about that. I've always preferred mine to do as they're told.

Anyway, she managed to keep him occupied the rest of the night, which suited me fine. I could see he was making a dick of himself, that she was playing him for the money, the power, the buzz, whatever, but he couldn't see it, or he could and didn't care maybe. But she kept him busy, and that's all that mattered. While they danced around each other, I bought Stephen a load of chips and then helped him lose them in a number of interesting different ways. But the payoff was when he won. His face. The way he celebrated, arms in the air. Not cool. Totally not cool. But amusing. The way every emotion was right there, on his face, his body, nothing hidden. Just right there, on offer. I took every chance to get close to him. Leant over his shoulder and pushed his chips onto a different number, red not black, black not red, getting a reaction from him. He'd frown, and protest, but smile. And I found myself smiling back. I was enjoying this more than I ever expected. As I leant over him, I inhaled. A warmth, coming off his skin. Heat, and excitement, and sweat, with a tang of some dime-store deoderant. This was more than an itch, now. It was a thirst. I knocked back my whiskey, sour and dark, as I felt him respond to my closeness, my invasion of his space, the way he let me, his acceptance of it, the intimacy of it. Standing behind him, my eyes running over the curve of his spine, I realised I wanted to put my thumb into the groove of it, and run it down, counting every vertebrae as I got closer to the hollow that marked the start of his arse. And on down, where it was darker. When he leant forward, his shirt rode up. A flash of lower back, a shadow, a curve. I imagined him lying on his front, where I wanted him, and doing that. How my thumb would fit into that groove. I could almost feel it.

I felt myself go into some zone where I knew there'd only be one outcome. Like this darkness, washing through me, that made it fucking impossible to walk away now. Don't remember ever being that hung up on a conquest before, but then this had been fucking hard work.

And the next day, finally. The dance. The one I'd been building to for weeks. Months. I felt like I knew these steps by heart, though I'd never played them like this before.

There was no sign of him at the club except his jacket, hanging on the peg in the office. I followed my nose. Down into the cellar. Quiet. And there he was. Sitting on a crate, bone idle, bent over my newspaper. His mouth wide in a yawn from lack of sleep, hair falling forward over his face, his eyes hidden behind dozy lids, a hand scratching at his armpit under the hoodie. I took it in. All of it. And knew that it was all going to be mine. And that I wouldn't be waiting much longer.

It was almost a shame to disturb him. He looked so lost in himself. And I liked looking. But I wanted him to look at me.

"Tough day?" I said.

"No," he said, nervous, jumping up. He still knew who the boss was. He swallowed, relaxed. "No, it's been all right, actually. I don't know how I've done it. You know, we didn't get out of the casino til four!"

He sounded amazed. Like it had been a long time since he'd seen out a night like that. Funny, because night's the only time I really feel like I'm alive.

He started rattling on about how much I'd won, what Danny had. Reckoned Jacqui must be celebrating her luck.

"Well," I said, considering him, "he's welcome to her."

Watched the discomfort come over his face.

"Sorry," he said, soft. "I forgot that you and her had a bit of a thing." So innocent. So fucking innocent. In spite of everything. I don't remember ever finding any other guy quite like this. Every other guy had some kind of come-on in his eyes. Some knowledge. Here, there was no knowledge, just openness. He was just wide, wide open. It was … a turn on.

"You know what, you can do better than that, anyway," he said to me. I looked him up and down. I knew it. So much better. So much more to my taste. He looked like he thought he'd said too much, though. "I'll let you get on," he said, with a smile, submissive.

"Well, I'm off now anyway, so …" I let it hang. I was finding it difficult to make my feet leave.

"Right," he said. "Got any plans for tonight?"

I looked at him. The way the teeth showed through his open lips. The short hair, over his ears, these fecking ears like seashells, sticking out, pink, vulnerable. Was the fecker trying to get time with me? Was that like … a date?

"Well, that's none of your business, is it?" I said to him.

He looked crestfallen. "Sorry," he said.

I did the relenting thing again. He always seemed to go for that. Come down hard, and then soften. "I'm going into town with a few friends," I said.

He nodded. "I think I'm just gonna ring Rae, you know, make it up to her, after standing her up last night."

Christ, this boy was a fool. He couldn't see what was in front of him.

"Yeah?" I said. "That's … that's fascinating. Try not to yawn in front of the customers." And I walked away, wondering why it never seemed like the right fucking moment to seal this deal.

But it wasn't hard to pull it round my way.

"That you done for the day, then?" he asked me, on my way out of the bar later.

And I span him a line. They'd let me down, those fecking mates of mine. Or they would have, if they'd existed.

"There goes a perfect night on the pull," I said, watching the uninteresting backside of some uninteresting female walking past.

"Yeah, but surely you've got other mates?" he said.

And I turned to look at him, expectant. Do it, I thought. It took half a second. Less. His eyes widened. "I could go with yer!" His excitement faded, though. "But I'm working."

"Are you trying to suggest someone else do your shift?" I asked him, looking into that perfect, innocent, knowing face, trying to scam the night off work to go on the pull. The open mouth. The arch of those brows. Those high fucking cheekbones.

"No," he said, pulling back a little bit. "No." He turned away, his face falling. "I just thought if you wanted to go, then …" He was disappointed. It mattered to him. It meant … everything. I watched his face, in profile. The chin, dropped onto his chest. The concave curve of his nose, down to the tip, like a fecking ski slope. I smiled.

"Cheryl's not here," I said. "You can have the night off. Be ready by seven." And I tapped the bar, and walked off, leaving it to sink in with him that he was about to get what he really wanted. Me. My time. My attention. And a whole lot more.

All it needed was a bit of arranging. Stage-managing. I picked him up from Chez Chez, and he'd been home to change. I looked him up and down. He wasn't what you'd call stylish, but he had his best bib and tucker on. This grey shirt, non-descript, straight out of some catalogue, and these grey trousers I'd never seen before, and his jacket, the only one I think he owned. His hair was combed, neat, a bit of product. I think he'd washed his face. I wanted to laugh. I also wanted to touch him so badly I had to bite my own lip. It was game on. But I knew I wasn't going to be able to wait long to get him on his own.

We went to a couple of bars, nowhere special. In town, away from the village. I bought him a few drinks, and watched him get a bit pissed, pretty fast. He was funny when he was drunk. Laughing at everything, like a drain. I don't suppose he drank much, normally. I made sure he had a great time. And he was amusing, coming over all worldly wise, sharing the wisdom of his surprisingly few years with me, his vast experience of the female of the species, as if I was some loner who needed his help.

But after a couple of hours, not much more, I made a surprise discovery. One I'd been waiting to make for a while. I'd forgotten my extra cash. I was clean out. We'd have to go back.

We ended up in the Dog. He wasn't put out. Not at all.

"It wouldn't have got any better later on anyway, trust me," he said, as we waited to be served.

Jeez, who was he now? Casanova? George fucking Clooney? But I let him lead.

"What, you mean on the women front?"

He laughed, intimate. "Hey, the lookers weren't exactly out, were they?" His shoulder nudged mine.

"Munters," I said, "every single one of them in every single bar. Unbelievable."

"To be fair, I did see a few fit ones, me, you know."

I looked at him, surprised. Disappointed. Was he never gonna learn? They weren't for him. Or he wasn't for them.

"Oh, yeah? You kept that quiet didn't you?" I'd never seen his lips look so full.

"Well I'm not sayin' they were owt special."

"Oh," I said, "any port in a storm then, yeah?" He had to learn, he could afford to be choosy. As long as he let me choose for him.

He looked at me, a bit confused. Frowned. "Nah," he said, "not me." That was more like it.

"Right," I said, "we'll have a couple more here and see what the talent's like."

"Hey," he said, joking again, trying to win back approval, "it'll be a first if there is any." Good lad. He was getting there.

"Oh hey," I said, pointing out some random, decent enough, "she's all right, isn't she?"

He grinned, loving it. "I'd give her an eight," he said, considering it solemnly.

Was he kidding me? "Eight?" I said. "Six, tops."

He screwed up his nose, baffled. Looked like I was gonna have to teach him what an eight felt like. Or more. Nine, maybe ten.

I took him back to the flat, knowing we had it to ourselves. Chez and Lynsey had headed over to Belfast for some hen party. I had all night, if I needed it.

"Now we know," I said, finding my keys, "Wednesdays are a complete wash-out everywhere." Funny how my hands didn't seem completely my own, as we got close to that door. I even dropped the fucking keys. Smooth. He was right behind me, practically breathing down my neck.

"Are you sure you don't mind us coming back 'ere?" he asked.

"You got a better suggestion?"

"Well, we could go to the club," he said, sounding slurred, "have a daaaance!" I just knew, behind me, he was getting his groove on. I could barely look. Stayed focussed on getting that fucking door open.

"Busman's holiday," I said to him, fumbling with the lock. There was no way he was going anywhere else but here, right at that moment.

"What?" he said, stopping, smiling, nose wrinkled, "I don't understand."

I looked round at him. Laughed at his expression. "What, busman's holiday?"

The door gave way right then, and I pushed through, feeling him put both hands into the small of my back, give me a shove, spunky, playing games. I felt his touch run through me. I felt it in my spine. My chest. My pelvis.

"What?" he said, frowning again, as I laughed at him.

"It's just …" I turned to look at him, standing in the flat, looking around him as if amazed he was there. "I forget how young you are sometimes."

I closed the door on us, and waved him over to the sofa. Watched him sink down, his body soft and floppy with drink. Explained, patiently, what I meant. He frowned and nodded. I don't think he had a clue. I laughed. He laughed.

"Yeah," he said, "but why a busman?" And I realised I didn't know. And he laughed, again, sniggering through his nose like a kid.

I got out more drink.

"No!" he said. "I can't handle any more, me."

"We are neither of us drunk," I said, as I poured us both slugs of whiskey, "don't worry, I'll stop you if you go too far." I breathed in the whiskey fumes, and took it across. "This has come all the way from Ireland," I said, handing him the glass.

"Wow," he said, as his hand brushed mine, taking it.

"It's good stuff," I told him. I wanted him to feel it. That this was a treat. A reward. And he did. But then, it was. Call it an advance.

I put music on, and took a seat. The sofa. Right alongside him. My arm, along the back. He moved a little bit, to give me space. He didn't need to do that.

"Slainte," I said to him. We chinked glasses. And I watched him screw up his face as he swallowed. Don't suppose he'd ever tasted anything like it before. But then, there's a first time for everything.

I sat and watched him sink it down, like the good lad he was learning to be. I cradled my own glass in my hand. This thing was moving on. But it needed a lot of care.

"Aaarrruugh!" he spluttered, shaking his head, as he drained the glass and put it down, and sank back beside me, slumped, laughing, his legs parted, the line of his boxers, and what was in them, clear as day under those grey trousers he was so proud of. His shoulder leant heavily against mine, now. His knee, close to my knee. I smiled at him.

"Ohhhh," he said, "it's mad this, innit?" Mad that anyone would take this much care over him, I guess.

"Oh yeah?" I said. "How come?" Not mad to me. Because it was going to be worth it. I could see that now.

"Brendan, come off it. A couple of weeks ago, I was the employee you most liked to have a go at."

"Making your life a misery, was I?" I asked him, playing with my glass, feeling the curve of it in my hand.

"Tell me about it!" he said, his voice high. "I thought you was never gonna give me a break."

"Yeah, well, maybe you've proved yourself," I said, taking another sip. I barely tasted it. The only thing I could taste was him. The smell of him, beside me. He smelled of … I don't know … something. I don't mean that market stall body spray he wears – god knew I was gonna have to educate him about that. Something else. Something real, that ran underneath it. Just him, I guess.

There was a pause. He sat up, facing me. "Have I?" Like it meant something. And it did. It did mean something.

I watched his body settle again, facing mine. "Yeah," I said. "Doesn't pay to get too familiar with the staff straight off," I said. "Trust me."

"Yeah, I know," he said, nodding vaguely, "but … you don't hang out with Rhys like this, do yer? Or Jacqui?"

He wanted to be special, so badly, I could see it. And he was. He was special. Tonight, he was. He was about to find out exactly how special he was. And exactly what was special about him. Somewhere in the background, I could hear the music building like a pulse.

"Well," he said, "Jacqui's a bit different, cos you and her were like … aaauuungh." He gave it a load of tongue. And I just watched. He laughed. I'm not sure he could even see straight now. But he could see me. All he could see, was me.

"Well maybe I like you more than Rhys," I told him. I heard the soft rumble in my voice inside my head, the bass in the music, the undertow that was about to drag us both in, if I could just get him there. And I would. I would get him there.

I scanned his face. He looked surprised. "Yeah?" His mouth, open. His face, beautiful.

"Yeah," I said.

And then it was like he kind of exploded. Joy, I guess. Approval. Something he'd been waiting for, for a long time, that now only I could give him.

"I've not had this much of a laugh in ages," he said, his head sinking back along the back of the sofa.

"Well I'm glad to hear I'm not always your moody boss," I said, finally finishing my own whiskey. Putting the glass down, out of harm's way.

"Yeah but that's just the thing though," he said, as I settled back beside him, waiting for the moment that I knew was coming, my hands between my legs. "I don't even think of you as my boss anymore."

"Oh?"

"I don't. Am I all right to say that now?" he asked, turning his head towards me, looking for approval again. Permission. He needed my permission, to do what was in his head.

I leaned in to him. "You can say whatever you like."

And suddenly, he was serious. His head went back again. "It's just cos, when I'm with Amy and the kids, yeah? I'm just, changing nappies, wiping up sick …" he shook his head, just a little bit, as if he was wondering what had happened to his crappy life. "I never feel up for it."

Something buzzed, in my brain. Hummed. "Up for it?" I asked him.

"Mm," he nodded, quiet.

"And why do you say, up for it?" I waited. Drawing him back to look at me.

He smiled, coy. "Uh … well, tonight, I _was_ feeling up for it." He grinned, his eyebrows, those arched fucking eyebrows, raised up to his hairline. He giggled. "Know what I mean?"

"Yeah," I said. "Yeah … me too."

"It's a shame," he said, his head resting back again. And then back up it came, like it was on elastic. "Don't get me wrong, though. I love lookin' after them kids, I really love em …"

But I was losing my patience. It was getting too much, him sitting there, mine. And not mine. Yet. I didn't want to hear it. Tonight, I was no one's Dad. And neither was he.

"Stephen, can we not talk about this, tonight? Please?"

He caught on fast, anyway. Mimed zipping it, to my relief, because some kind of pressure was building in my head that was gonna have to find a way out, and soon. He put a finger over his lips.

"Sssshhhh," he giggled. "I am going on a bit though, aren't ah?"

Always so unsure of himself.

"No," I told him, "no, you're not, but your drink is empty, so … let me get you another one."

And he was up, in a second. "No," he said, "I'll get it." As if nothing was too much trouble.

And like that, as soon as he moved, my foot went out. He fell over it, onto the other sofa, and I went to catch him. He landed on his front, face down, laughing, and rolled over. I bent over him. My hand went to the back of his neck, cradling it. It was soft, like I'd known it would be. He was still laughing though, the breath coming through his teeth, his nose. It took a while, before it faded away. Before he realised it wasn't funny. I cradled him, and looked at his mouth, as the laughter faded, leaving the smile still on his face, but less sure. Our faces came closer, like they were driven together by the music in the background, and by the alcohol, and by the night, and by everything last damn thing that had happened between us since he walked into my fucking club.

He didn't struggle. His face softened as my right hand moved to touch it, my index finger lying along the line of his cheekbone, my thumb tracing his chin. The light was behind me, and I cast a shadow over his face. But I could still see everything on it. I felt it. I knew it. A look came into his eyes. A flicker. A slow light, dawning.

Do it, I thought, looking at him. Do it.

Because this had to come from him. It had to.

I felt his hand go to my neck, tentative. I felt the pressure of his fingers, gentle. Then he pulled me down, the last inch, uncertain but damn fucking sure at the same time. My thumb felt the pulse throb in his throat, heavy, fast. He looked at my mouth. And then he lifted his head up, and put his mouth against my mouth.

He kissed me.

And it was …

His mouth. I felt his nose rub along mine.

I …

Damn.

Extraordinary.

Extra. Ordinary.

I could have drowned in it.

Drowned.

For a second, I was drowning.

But I can't drown.

My eyes opened. I stood up, pushing at his chest. Hard. Wiped my mouth.

"Did you just … did you just kiss me?"

His face, shocked, his breath heaving in his chest.

"What do you think you're doing?"

"I just …" he got up, confused. "I'm sorry." Eyes, wide.

"Go," I said.

But he didn't move. Seemed like he couldn't move.

"Now, go!" I yelled at him.

And he seemed to jerk awake, grabbed his jacket. "I'm goin'!" His voice high, almost hysterical. Afraid.

He disappeared like a rabbit down a hole. The door slammed, heavy, behind him.

I stood for a second, taking in the silence. The music had stopped. I wandered across, picked up the two glasses, and carried them to the sink. Before I dumped the one Stephen had drunk from, I lifted it and inhaled deeply. I wondered if I could still smell him. Taste him. I put out my tongue and licked the rim of the glass.

Then I dumped it, walked to the bathroom, and turned on the shower. Took off my clothes, chucking them on the floor. Stood under the hot jet of water. I let it flow down over my face. I don't know why, but I could still taste that kiss on my mouth. Still feel it, the touch of it. The sweetness of it. The shock of it.

Tomorrow, I'd have him. He was mine.

And until then, I closed my eyes. Thought about the feel of him, underneath me. His body arching up towards mine. The way his legs parted, almost involuntary, under the pressure of my touch. I pressed one hand against the wet tiles, braced myself. Wrapped the other around my cock. Started to pump myself towards release. My balls ached with wanting that hand to be him. When I came, it was like it was ripped out of me. And for a second, while my eyes went black, and the water splashed down over my body, the spunk running down the tiles into the bath, I was lost. And I wasn't sure if I'd taken something from him, or he'd taken it from me.


	11. Chapter 11

****_Well, if you're a Brendan and Ste fan, it's been quite a week. It feels like the end of a very long and amazing chapter, and I feel a bit like it's me that's been punched in the stomach. I'm sure no one's really in the mood for fic right now, I'm sure as hell not much in the mood for writing it! But this update was done, so I'm putting it out there, because I'm not sure how long it'll take me to do the next one. But a massive thankyou for the lovely comments on the last chapter. I'm so chuffed, because I loved writing it. This one was harder.  
><em>

**Trouble**

**Part 11**

I dressed with a bit of care, next morning. I have this shirt, red shirt, don't wear it much, but … it seemed right. I checked myself over in the mirror. Smoothed a hand over my chest. Ran a finger over the tash. I looked … expectant. Hungry. Underneath, I felt like I was carrying this darkness, dense, heavy, right in my bone marrow. And I knew it was going to have to find a way out. Today.

I went to work. Took up my position. Watched. Waited.

He avoided my eyes. Could barely look at me.

He still came to me though. To the office, where I was waiting for him, where I knew he would come. Opening the door slowly, and coming in, cautious. Brave kid.

"Have you got a minute?" he asked, making nervous gestures with his hands, his voice soft.

I settled back, and said nothing. I just watched him standing there in the dark of the office, lit by the one light on the desk, the rest black in shadow. It's how I like to work.

"I … I just wanted to say sorry," he said, his eyes cast down, twisting his fingers. Looked up at me from under his brows. "About what happened, yesterday." He started to shake his head. "I don't even know why."

I watched, and let the silence go on. Deepen. I swear I could hear his heart hammering over there on the other side of the desk like a mouse in a trap.

He started looking for excuses.

"I think it was probably the booze, y'know, cos I wasn't even thinking straight, was ah? I wasn't thinking at all." He laughed, nervous. And I kept watching.

Eventually, I put him out of his misery. "No bother, mate," I said. Quiet.

Surprise, and hope, seemed to dawn on his face.

"Serious?"

I grunted. Gave him permission, with my eyes, to go on.

He looked amazed. "So … I've still got a job? You're not gonna batter me?"

I laughed, under my breath. "Well, you wouldn't be much use to me then, now, would ye?"

He licked his lips, and his shoulders seemed to relax a little. "Right." He didn't go though. There was more. I gestured with my eyes, towards the sofa, and he perched on the arm. Seemed to go into himself, hunched, as if he was groping for some words. He looked at the fingernails of one hand.

"It's not even like I've ever done it before." He sounded confused, like he was looking for reasons.

"You blamin' me?" I asked him. And he looked up.

"No, I didn't mean that." He sounded quiet. Quieter than I'd ever heard him before.

"You think I'm queer?" I couldn't have him thinking this was me, that I was like that. I'm not. We just do what we do.

"No," he said, protesting, "I don't think it's anything to do with you, it's me." So now we were getting to it. I blinked. Let him continue. His eyes dropped. He looked defeated. "It must be me," he said, softly. And there was something there. Something he wanted to tell me. I took a deep breath.

"So … you have done it before?" I felt as if we were on the edge of something. Dancing around it. And the answer mattered. To me, that's what surprised me. The answer mattered to me.

"No," he said, emphatic, looking up again. "I 'aven't." But there was something in his eyes. A secret, that needed to come out. I looked at him, my breathing almost stopped. Come out, come out, wherever you are. "I nearly did," he said, drooping again.

And I knew, then. I knew he was like me. This breath, that I felt like I'd been holding from the second he stood up to me in the office, fucking months ago, found its way out slowly, slowly from between my teeth, with an almost soundless hiss.

"When I was in the nick," he said, his head still bent, "um … there was this lad, down the corridor, and me and 'im were like, best mates …" he looked up, "but, I never …" the words faded away. He frowned, lost in his own thoughts. "I thought about it, but I never." His eyes were lost, behind those lashes. He looked sad. Then broke out of it. "And then when I got out, I … I just - I went straight back to Amy, didn't I, and I never thought about a bloke ever again." He sounded puzzled. I felt a need to help him out.

"Til last night," I said.

And he looked at me again, from those deep set eyes, full of trouble. Then his chin sank nearly down on to his chest.

"Are you gonna tell anyone?"

"Mate," I said, "I wouldn't tell anyone even if they had a gun to my head." Because he had to learn this now. This thing, this thing that we felt, it was a secret. You don't talk about it. Ever.

He looked at me, unsure. Not a lot happier. "Right," he said, nodding. He seemed to be looking for words. His mouth worked, silently. Finally, "And … me and you … we're still mates?" It was touching, really, that he still needed that. I laughed, soft.

"It never happened," I said to him. Because it didn't. Those things, they don't. They're a different life. "OK?" And he nodded, and sighed, and looked relieved. But still unhappy. Blaming himself. Doubting himself. As he would. He kissed me, after all.

I couldn't help wondering if he'd been hoping for something more from me. A bunch of carnations, maybe. Couple of tickets to a movie. An engagement ring. Because he was relieved. But he also seemed … disappointed.

I sent him off, back to his work. I needed to lighten the tension a bit, get out of that office, so I headed off to the pub later for a pint, knowing he was watching me go. And whaddya know, guess who was there? None other than my old mate Malachy Fisher. He was still hanging around the place, but no idea what he was up to. After I'd fired him, Chez had told him in no uncertain terms to stay away from us. She didn't like the lies he was spreading about me. And the thing with his wife was well over, so I don't know why he bothered staying really, it's not like there was anything for him there, not even his brother now. I saw her come in though, the lovely Mercedes, and clocked a way to get under his skin. I bought her a drink, gave it the maximum flirt, and she was more than happy to play up to it, with Mal sat right there. I was pouring on the charm, telling her she should have got the bar job all along, that I'd have a word with Cheryl, and she was starting to purr like a cat, when there was a voice.

"Er … I've been ringing yer."

Stephen. Standing there looking shy and hopeful. Sounding like a nagging wife.

"What for?"

He looked awkward. "Well, I've finished all them deliveries now, so I just need some notes to pay Mick."

It bugged me, to be interrupted. He'd have to learn his place. I excused myself and went over there with some cash. I could see he wasn't happy. That sulky mouth again. That pout. That shifting from foot to foot. That cry for attention. It was interesting. I looked at him, long and hard, trying to break him, to see what was inside that pretty head.

"There ye go," I said, handing over the notes. "Try not to spend it all in the sweet shop."

He frowned at me. Tutted. Seemed to be looking over my shoulder, at Mercedes sitting at the bar.

"Um …" his face took on a teasing look, intimate, like he had last night. "First Carmel, then Jacqui, now Mercedes," he laughed, "you working your way through all of them?"

He was looking for a response. For that approval he felt last night. That intimacy. Digging for it. Needing it.

I withheld it.

"You're not jealous, are ye?" I mocked him.

"No!" he said, looking appalled. And showing, with every line on his face, that he was. "Very funny."

"Well," I said, like it was nothing, "run along." And I dismissed him with my hand.

I saw his head sink as I headed back to the bar. I knew his eyes were on me. And I picked up with the lovely Mrs Fisher, feeling the force of his disappointment, hearing him drag his feet out of the pub. It hacked Malachy off as well, and I like to multi-task, when I can.

Can't say I stayed long though. Just long enough to let him simmer. Then I got up and made my excuses. The fun had gone out of it anyway. Once Malachy had stormed off and there was no one around to see it, it's strange how there was nothing between me and his missus at all. Not a spark.

So I headed back to the club. And there he was. He seemed lost in his own thoughts, a total brown study, leaning forward on his arms on the bar, his hands clasped, his head turned away. A cloth he'd been using to wipe down the bar, tossed aside. Sulking, I guess. Or wrestling with something. Something he was feeling, coming through strong now, but didn't really understand. I watched him for a moment, my head on one side. Remembered last night. The way he'd responded to my every move. The feeling of putting hands on him. Owning him. Him touching me. His mouth.

I went over slowly to stand close, right up behind his shoulder. Slid my hand along the bar, alongside his. I knew he knew I was there. I could practically see the hairs stand up on the back of his downy neck. His head lifted but didn't turn. He was alert to me. Tuned in. Good boy.

"You lookin' for something to do?"

He turned his head towards me, slowly. I noticed that tilt of his nose, again. His face was more guarded now, though. Harder to read. He said nothing.

"Some crates down the cellar need taking up," I said to him, my voice smooth, soft, even. No time to scare him, now.

"OK," he said, quiet. Puzzled. Sulky. Like he'd been expecting more. Wanting more.

He straightened up and sort of schlepped past me. Time to call him out.

"What was all that about before?" I asked him, and he stopped and turned back to face me.

He shrugged, ran his tongue over his lips. "I don't know what you're talkin' about," he said to me. With just a bit of defiance. For a moment, he almost smiled.

I stepped up, very close. My shadow fell over his face.

"Don't you?" I asked him. And waited, to see who would break first.

He did. He broke eye contact. Swallowed, licked his lips again. "I'll just go and get them crates," he said, and moved away, but he threw me a last look as he did.

And I guess I knew it had to be then. I followed him down.

He was standing with his back to the door, loading up, when I walked in. He turned with the crate in his hands and saw me. Stopped. Gave me a half smile, submissive. I think he was expecting to get past. But I closed the door behind me, heard it slam shut.

"You're not going anywhere," I said.

I saw the nervousness on his face. And I turned and locked the door. Because it's only when the door's locked that I can let this out. And it was time.

When I turned back to him, he started stuttering, but stopped. He looked back at me, confused. As I closed in on him, he backed away, still clutching that crate. Eventually, his back hit a pillar with a thud, and he instinctively braced himself, turning his face away. I leant across the crate and saw the beads of sweat on his face, his hair, a bit lank, his eyes screwed shut and his lips clamped together, waiting for the impact that he instinctively knew was coming, wanting not to cry out, his breathing coming in short sobs. I could smell the fear pouring off him, musky and damp. Not the first time he'd cowered from a slap, I remember thinking.

I took the crate out of his hands. It was the only thing left between us. As I dumped it on one side, he looked up, and opened his eyes. And I stood back in front of him now. Now, I thought. Has to be now. He looked like he wanted to cry, as I came close. As I leant towards him, he was shaking. But he looked into my eyes, and I think he realised at the last second what might be coming. Because I was going to put it all right now, baby.

And I leant in and kissed him on that fucking sad beautiful confused frightened mouth. Just short. But sweet, yeah, like the previous night. As I pulled back, and waited for a response, his body seemed to unclench in surprise. His expression froze, then changed. He looked confused. Then amazed. But he didn't say no. I smiled. There was almost no sound, in that cellar. Only the drums of the music, coming from over our heads, but a long way off, in a different world. And down there, breathing, and the hammering that was coming from inside his chest.

And then I kissed him again. A little bit longer, this time. Savouring it. Keeping my mouth pressed there, as he closed his eyes, and gave in to what he'd been waiting for all this time. All his life, probably. Fuck, it was sweet. I breathed him in, deep. Felt his lips start to open, just for a second, and pulled back.

I looked at his face, into his eyes, and I smelt it. Finally. Not fear, now. Or not wholly fear.

Desire. Want. He wanted me. It smelt good.

So I gave him what he wanted. I grabbed the back of his head. Felt his mouth clamp on to mine. His mouth open. His tongue invade my mouth. His hand grip my own neck to anchor him. He offered himself to me, right there and then.

And I took my fill.

Halle-fuckin-lujah.

* * *

><p>Do I really need to say what happened next? Do I? Seriously? Do I really need to say that I reached around his body with my arm and pulled him hard against me while I was kissing him, and felt him fall into me, bumpy, awkward and angular, not used to being held but wanting it anyway. That when I broke away I looked at his eyes, his lids drooping, his whole body almost passive with wanting it, and shoved him back against the pillar again, feeling the impact of it travel through his back, my groin making contact with his for the first time, hearing an intake of breath, and feeling his cock harden in his pants before I kissed him again, my hand in his hair, tight. That when I broke away the next time, I just looked at his mouth, hanging open, panting for breath, his lips swollen, and the skin above it red with the friction of the kiss, raw. And that then my hands went to his belt and started to loosen him, his eyes looking down at my hands as if he couldn't totally believe it, was powerless to help, but was willing me on. That I unzipped his fly, pushed his trousers and boxers down a little lower on his hips, and plunged my hand inside. Yeah. Oh yeah, he was definitely hard already. I looked right into his eyes as I did, and watched him gasp and whimper. I squeezed, rubbing my thumb up and down the whole length, and caressing the tip, and kissed him, feeling him starting to disintegrate. I'd have to pace this, I knew, with it being his first time, and he hadn't been getting much for a while it seemed like. But at the same time, no harm in getting on with it, in case he got cold feet. I removed my hand and felt his body unclench for a moment, knowing he was aching for more. And then I felt his hands at my belt. His own, doing it all on his own. He fumbled, awkward, his hands shaking. I smiled. And took over. Then I took hold of his hand and guided it in. Felt him flex his fingers, clumsy, and then find me, and stop. And then curl around me. And then hold on. He looked right at me, his face bright red. I smiled again, and kissed him as a reward. And slid my hand in to find him again.<p>

The next bit was … interesting. He had great hands, I realised. Strong, and bony. And more rhythm than he had when he was dancing. And a strange gentleness, even when he was pumping away for all his life was worth, I felt his other hand find its way under my shirt, grabbing at the muscles of my back, straying down onto my arse. But it was obvious when his own climax was coming. He seemed to slump into me, and moaned into my shoulder, and lost his rhythm and his grip, his hand becoming loose. I pulled back, and looked at him, pulling his own hand out of my boxers, tossing it aside. For a moment, he looked worried, rejected, like he thought he might be doing it wrong, but my hands went back to his belt, and I pulled his trousers and boxers roughly down over his backside and halfway down his legs. He looked down at himself, exposed, standing out like a flagpole, and then back at me. And then I got down on my knees, and took a look at what I'd got.

It was very nice. Very, very nice. Not massive, but a good shape, standing up out of a surprising fuzz of light brown hair that sprouted around his balls. I looked up at him, and saw him looking back down in shock, his mouth open. And then I took hold of that well-shaped cock, and guided it into my mouth, pulling him forward to meet me with my other hand on his arse.

"Oh … fu …" I heard coming out of his mouth, "f … fuck!"

I felt one hand grip my shoulder, while the other seemed to slap against his own neck, as if he didn't know what to do with it. But then slid off, and landed on my head, burying in my hair.

I steadied him with both hands on his buttocks now. And they were as firm and taut as I'd known they would be. Smooth, but with a sensation of light hair under my hands.

And I let myself taste him. Working him with my tongue, feeling him sweat and melt, he tasted like a distillation of everything he smelled of. Perspiration, and awkwardness, and desire, and a longing to be loved, musky and sour in equal parts. I took him into the back of my throat and felt my nose bury in that surprising light brown hair that trailed down from his belly button.

For a second, I almost lost myself. Let a finger stray between his arse cheeks, feeling my way, finding his entry, still tight. But I felt him stiffen, his body jerk.

"Uh … n …"

And he didn't need to say any more. I took it away, holding the cheek of his bum in the palm of my hand instead, squeezing it.

Didn't take him long to come, anyway, after that. I just gave him my full attention, listening to his excitement mounting, quickly.

"Oh … oh … fuck … oh no … no ….!"

And he moved rapidly through heat, and quivering, to shooting his load. I felt the back of my mouth fill with him. It went on a surprisingly long time, his hand gripped tight in my hair. And then he seemed to slump, and I let him drop, slowly, from my mouth, sucking all the way, and hunkered back on my heels. I looked up at him, sweating, panting, red, and almost shocked at what he'd just let me do. At the thought that I would want to, maybe. I savoured the taste of him, that first taste. And then I swallowed. His eyes were wide, watching me do it.

I stood up, and came eye to eye with him.

"S … sorry," he said. He looked overwhelmed, a bit. Exposed. I pulled his waistband back up over his hips, loosely. Then I looked at him. And I put my hand on his neck and pulled him into a kiss. Hopefully that was enough answer for him. I never even stopped to think really, that he might find it strange, to taste himself in my mouth. I just let him have it. I wanted him to taste himself as I tasted him. To see himself as I saw him. I rubbed my tongue against his, wanting him now. And I felt the response, in his mouth, the openness of it.

As I kissed him, I felt his hand reaching its way back to my cock. I grabbed hold of it, pulled it back and looked at him. I shook my head.

"I don't know what to …" he started, unsure.

I kissed him again, short, gentle. And spoke it almost into his mouth.

"You return the favour, Stephen …"

His eyes seemed to scan my face, as if he were under a spell. Do or die time, I guess he was thinking.

"Yeah?" I said to him softly, looking at his mouth, already open.

"Mm," he said, quietly, and nodded, just a little bit. His eyes were wide.

"Yeah," I said. Good lad, I thought. But I didn't want to break whatever spell that was keeping him going.

And before I even knew what was happening, he was down on his knees, resting back on his heels. He looked up at me, looking for approval, as he pushed my clothes off, uncertain. And then grabbed hold of the base of my cock in one hand, and squeezed.

Christ. "Easy," I said. And I swear he almost smiled.

He bent his head down and opened his mouth, but he sort of failed at the last moment, as if he thought he couldn't do it. He looked up at me.

"Breath through your nose," I said to him, my voice low, trying to hide the urgency I felt in every fucking muscle now, running a hand over his head to calm him down. And he nodded again. Opened wider. In the end, I gave him a hand. Grabbed hold of my cock, and the back of his head, and kind of guided it in there. Watched it disappear between those lips. Felt the rough wetness of his tongue. The pressure of his cheeks.

Fucking hell. Fuck – Jesus, Mary and Joseph.

I'd been thinking of this for a long time. A long time. I couldn't actually remember the last time I hadn't been thinking about his dirty mouth, no matter what the fuck else I'd been doing. And now here he was, soft and wet, and wrapped around me. And he was good at it. Soft at first. Tentative. But then starting to use his tongue, rhythmic. Oh, seriously, fuck. His head bobbed, trying to take more in, building some momentum, until he gagged, and pulled back. It didn't matter, that often happens the first time. Can't say it happened to me, when I decide I want something, it's because I know I can take it, but it happens.

"Slow it down," I said to him, my hands staying buried in the back of his hair.

And he nodded again, and went back to it, not trying so hard this time, just taking what he could, and wrapping his fist round the base of my cock to help him along.

I watching him for a second, feeling myself starting to slide, my muscles clenching, hard, my eyes glazing, the sight of him, wrapped around me, his mouth running up and down, one hand buried in the hair of my groin. Fuck, he was … he was fucking gorgeous. It fucking hurt. I dunno, maybe my balls were just aching, gathering themselves to explode, but it almost fucking hurt, I'd waited so long, to see him down there on his knees, doing what I'd dreamed of him doing, with more enthusiasm than skill maybe, but loving it. I felt something start to wash through me. Lights, shooting across the darkness at the back of my eyes. Something beating, hammering its way out, like fists on a door, thumping in my brain and my chest and my groin. Everything, everything, came down to that one point, his mouth, my cock, one of his hands on my backside, my hand on his head, but mainly, just his mouth, my cock. Before I knew what was happening ,really, everything was red heat, molten, and I heard a rough cry trying to find its way out from between my clenched teeth, and I heard him make a guttural noise every time I thrust into his mouth, for all I was trying to hold back on him, and then I let go. White heat streamed out of me, and into him. There was fuck all else in the world.

Somewhere, I was coming back to earth. To myself. I felt him drop me from his mouth, choking a bit. I watched almost in slow motion through my coming down as he reeled back a bit, catching himself with a hand, behind him, and looked up at me. I wondered vaguely if he would spit. But he seemed to make a split decision, while his eyes were locked on mine. He swallowed. I watched his Adam's apple bob. He swallowed me down.

Do I really need to say all of that? The inevitable, the predictable, the eternal, the gutwrenching wanting and grabbing and taking and desire and satisfaction. The fucking astonishment of it, like touching the face of God, blessed. And the fucking obscenity of it, like grabbing the devil by his tail and holding on for dear life while he drags you down to hell. I guess I do. I guess I do.

It seemed very quiet in that damn cellar, afterwards. The bass of the music, from upstairs, still thumping in the distance.

I watched him wipe his mouth on the back of his hand, still crouching. Our eyes held. Fuck.

Then I snapped back. Reality would be biting, soon enough. Pulled my clothes back up, rebuckled and rebuttoned. Smoothed my hair with one hand. Looked down at him. Held out a hand.

He grabbed hold of it and levered himself back to standing. He looked at me, tentative.

"Well, sort yourself out then," I said to him, gesturing to his clothes, because his cock was still hanging half out of his kecks, all soft and spent and vulnerable.

He jumped to it like a kid, but then moving slowly, as if underwater, pulling up his clothes and refastening, his hands loose and fumbly. I watched that cock disappear into his boxers, and behind his zipped fly. It was all mine now, that cock, so it didn't matter. I'd be seeing it again. I intended to get pretty familiar with it. Then he looked at me again, hopeful.

I looked over him, speculative. "Yeah," I said, "you'll do."

"Brendan … " he started, tentative, unsure, stepping up close to me.

I held up my hand to stop him. But I knew what he needed. Reassurance. Was it good? Was I good? Will we be doing this again? All that.

I looked down into his face, still pink, his hair a bit dishevelled. He smelt of sex. Hot and clean. His eyes were full of something. Satisfaction. Mixed with doubt. He looked … yeah, he looked different. Still him, but exposed, stripped. Like somehow the sex had made him properly him, for the first time. Stephen. His skin glowed, smooth. I ran a hand over his hair, smoothing some of it back behind one ear. He almost seemed to lean his head into my hand. Then I put my hand under his chin, and felt it tip up towards me of its own accord. Then I couldn't resist. I wasn't going to. I was gonna leave him hanging, wanting more. But I gave him a kiss. Not sure why. Just seemed like a good way to bring the curtain down, for now. Only a quick one. But I felt him yield and give in to it before I pulled away. Harder than I thought.

"Give it five minutes," I said to him, and made myself walk away and leave him down there.

The rest of the shift, I avoided him. There was plenty needed doing, and I made sure I did the jobs that took me out of the club. Made sure that we were never alone, that Chez or the other staff were there, and when we opened the doors and let the punters in that night, I stayed just long enough to do a bit of schmoozing, get a bit of atmosphere going, and called it a night. I knew he was watching me, from behind the bar. I could feel his eyes all over me. I let myself look, once. Meet his eye, once. There was some guy, talking to me. Yeah, yeah, I said to him. I didn't hear a word. There were a bunch of people between me and the bar, but they were hardly there. I just saw a pair of eyes, and a look which was … interesting. I let myself smile at him. Just once. Watched him glow with heat. His face, completely open to me. I had a buzz in my head, chest and groin. I felt amazing, like I'd been shot full of fucking adrenalin. Like I could do anything. Like I was king of the fucking world. And then I looked away. Sure, mate, sure, I heard myself saying.

Soon after, I knocked off and left Cheryl in charge. Plenty of time for dealing with those eyes, that expression, that told me I could roll him over right there on the bar and take him any way I wanted. Plenty of time. I went home. I bought a massive pack of fish and chips on the way. I was fucking starving, suddenly. Ravenous. Like I hadn't eaten for months, years, collapsed in on myself. And when I got home, I consumed them, chip by salty, vinegary chip, a raging hunger for every mouthful until the very last bite, tossing the paper into the bin and licking the batter and grease from my fingers.

And then the day after … it all had to change.

* * *

><p>It's always a risk, when you take someone like that, when you give them what they want, that they'll keep wanting it, and asking for it, even when it's not convenient. And the big problem with Stephen, from the start, was the same thing that so got under my skin about him. He didn't know the rules. He was a challenge, because he didn't know, didn't understand. Getting him was like this triumph, I felt like a god for a day. But then after, he didn't know, didn't understand how it went down. And he had to be taught.<p>

I should have known, really. Someone like Stephen, showing him affection like that, something he'd never had, he just wanted more. He was like a fucking cat, or something. Coming up, rubbing round your legs, wanting affection, but tripping you up, getting in the fucking way.

When he came in the next day, he was all smiles. Secret ones. Like someone had put the lights on for him. Me, I guess. Which was flattering, but he was about as subtle as a belisha beacon. He still glowed with sex. With wanting more of it. So I blanked him. And watched his face close down, unsure, thinking he might have done something wrong. But not having a fucking clue what. Even then, there was something in his eyes when he looked at me. I didn't know why he had to make it so fucking obvious, when Chez was right there.

Cheryl was prattling on about some massive birthday do she was planning in the club, relaunching it or something, and he sidled right up to me. Stood very close. Too close.

"You wanna get past?" I asked him, leaning on the bar top, casual, not looking at him.

"Please," he said, submissive, but a distant murmur of complaint in his voice. I shifted just enough to let him squeeze past, behind me. My eyes followed him as he did. I couldn't help it. And he glanced back at me. Almost like a reproach. He was quiet now, at least.

I was barely listening to a word coming out of Chez's mouth, for all I love her, but I gave her some advice for her big do, give it a bit of class, something she doesn't really get on her own. I knew he was looking at me. He really seemed fucking miserable this morning. His mind sure as hell wasn't on his work. I told Cheryl to go for sophistication, every time.

"Have you heard him?" Chez turned to Stephen. "He really knows how to turn on the charm, doesn't he?"

And I couldn't resist. I let myself grin at him, raise my eyebrows. He looked fed up. Funny, he wasn't complaining the day before.

"No wonder the women of Chester are beating your door down," Chez was going on. "Who is it this week, Bren? Not another McQueen, God willing?"

I told her to give it a rest, as she laughed. And I watched him sigh, his chest rising and falling with frustration. I'd have to say something to him eventually though, I knew it. I took my chance when I was on my own at the bar, and he brought the fresh crates up.

"You all right?" I asked him, as he put one down on the bar beside me. I didn't look at him at first. But when I did turn my head, he was nodding. And then he gave me this smile. His secret smile, all arched eyebrows and curved lips.

"Never better," he said, his voice soft. So I guess I knew he'd just had the best blow job of his life, then, as if I didn't know that already.

He glanced over at the office door, because Chez was in there. And then down at my hand. And then he took me by surprise. He put one of his hands over mine, and just laid it there, gentle. Curled his fingers around my knuckles. And he smiled, coy. And blinked, his eyelashes long.

I couldn't quite believe it was happening. You don't … just … you just don't. Guys don't. What was he thinking? Was he mad? And then Chez was there, and I snatched my hand away, tossing his aside.

I watched her back, retreating.

"Can I have a word with you?" I said to him. Because I had a sudden, certain knowledge that we needed to straighten this out. Right now.

"Sure?" he asked me, probably thinking he was getting a second dose of yesterday.

I turned to face him. "In private," I said. And watched that smile curve across his lips again. The lights go on. But they were burning too bright. Anyone could see them. Cheryl, anyone.

I headed down to the cellar, because that was ours now, our place, where we could do the private stuff. And after a couple of minutes, I heard him follow me down, his feet scuffing the stairs, the way he does. I glanced at him, as he appeared. He stood, looking uncertain.

"You all right?" he asked me. Soft. Worried.

I was holding this bottle in my hand, some of the good stuff. The stuff you get out for celebrations. Birthdays. Weddings. Polishing the dust off it with a cloth. I kept looking at it. Polishing. I wish I could have rubbed it away, really. Sometimes, you just want to rub things out. Start again.

I put it down. Turned towards him. "Yeah," I said, wiping the hands that suddenly felt dirty, discarding the cloth. I was aware of turning my chewing gum over and over in my mouth.

"I just thought that you were being funny with me," he said. Quiet. Pretty subdued really, considering he practically blew the whole game upstairs.

"Well why would that be?" I asked him, looking. Wondering if he would get there on his own. Bracing myself for something that I knew was coming.

His eyes flickered around. "You know," he said, sidling towards me, carefully, but meeting my gaze, eventually.

"Well … remind me," I said to him.

He looked surprised. Then looked back over his shoulder at the door, conspiratorial, his tongue emerging from his lips. Then stepped right up to me.

"After what we did," he said, "in here." He put his hand on my waist. Looked up into my face, smiling. I froze at the contact, his hand on my jacket. I looked down at it. He honestly had no fucking clue what this was.

I sucked in air, and let it out. And he just wouldn't stop smiling. Bold. He was gonna be bold, this one. How the fuck did that happen? He was meant to be one I could control. Weaker than Macca. Less lippy. I tried to smile, laugh. But it died on my lips. Instead, I reached for the key to the door in my pocket, and held it up. He looked at it. His face kind of darkened with lust. He bit his lip, and looked back at me.

"Will you lock the door, please?" I asked him, nice and polite. I thought he'd understand that.

"If you like," he said, smiling, biting that lip, taking the key from my hand. He stuck his chin out, bold as brass.

"Oh yeah," I said to him. "I like."

So he did. Good as gold. Locked us in there together, looking out at me from under those brows. The expectation of sex in his eyes.

And I wanted him, I did. But I couldn't have him. Not this time. This was about the rules. Setting some parameters. This was about him understanding that if he was going to be a part of my life, it was on my terms. Always on my terms. But I don't know, it just … it seemed a shame.

I turned my back on him as he stood there waiting, patiently. Ran a hand over my brow. I was sweating. There was just something about him. Something … I don't know … unnerving. He wasn't ashamed. He had no shame. He was shameless. He just wanted to fuck and screw and had no problem with it. And we were both … we were guys. It wasn't … it wasn't anything, it was no big deal, it just … it probably shouldn't have happened, but it had, it always did, and it probably never should again, but it would, it always would, and I couldn't get away from it. I'd never, never get away from it. Him standing there, wanting me. And the thought of him. The memory of him. His mouth, his eyes, his fingers, his fucking cock and his balls and his arse, and I wanted him, I did. I did. But I could only … I had to keep a lid on it. That's all. I just had to make sure it stayed locked away. But I wished I didn't have to do this. Any of it. The bit that came before, or the bit that came after. Life would have been so much simpler without it. All of it. Without him. But I did want him.

"Do you want me to go?" he said, eventually.

And I probably should have let him, but then we'd only have to do this later.

I shook my head, my thumb and finger stroking across my forehead, trying to ease the pressure of what was about to happen. White lines of electricity seemed to shoot across the front of my brain. "No," I said. And I didn't. I really didn't want him to go. I wanted him to stay.

But he misread it. He fucking misread it, because all he could think about now was sex. It was like I'd ruined him somehow. The whole thing.

"OK," he said, expectation in his voice, teasing, and stepped up behind me. I felt his hand on my shoulder, laid there, kept there, and I span around, shaking him off, a hand up to push him away. But then I saw him, and I couldn't. It was just him, Stephen. And he was beautiful. And he was just a kid, really, standing there in the shadows, wanting to be a man, looking up to me. And I put my hand against his chest, and just left it there. Felt his heart beat. Felt a returning pressure as he leant into it.

I braced myself.

I wanted him, so bad. And he was mine now. I put a hand up and stroked some hair behind his ear. Cupped his face, his neck. His eyes were half closed with pleasure, like a cat, the anticipation of it. He licked his lips, and I saw his tongue. He was waiting for it, what was coming. I used the hand on his neck to pull him towards me. His mouth was open for it. Eager. Gagging for it. He looked like a little queer. It was fucking horrible.

So I used my other fist to punch him.


	12. Chapter 12

****_So I think this is how far I got before it all went pear-shaped and (ahem) t*ts-up on screen. For a while, I thought I might not be able to keep writing Brendan and Ste, but it was a totally emotional reaction, and going back and reminding myself how amazing this old stuff was has actually kept me going this week. So I will keep going. Thanks as always for reading, and if you left a comment, for the lovely feedback. Here we go then ... cos it's all right, innit, when it's just Brendan and Ste.  
><em>

**Trouble**

**Part 12**

I won't go into what happened next. I don't really remember. I think he reeled away and fell over, making this noise that sounded like he couldn't breathe. Then he was crying, like a little girl, saying he didn't understand. I told him not to touch me - he should have known that. But he seemed to think I'd want him to, and I don't know where he could have got that from. Why would I want that? It was disgusting, him coming on to me like that, wanting sex, expecting it. I think I told him that.

I couldn't really stand to look at him. A young guy, taken a hit, lying crumpled like a paper bag, thrown away by the wall, crying. That's not a pretty picture.

And I remember that it was hard to see. I don't know. My eyes were blurred. Frustration, anger, disgust, I don't know. I wiped a hand over my eyes.

Then they refocused. I could see him clearly now, huddled over by the wall, clutching his middle. He looked in a pretty bad way. I realised he probably needed a hand. He was upset, obviously, so I tried to pep talk him a bit. He didn't seem to be able to get up, and I knew he'd need looking at, so I practically had to drag him up in the end. Unlocked the door and managed to get him out of there, with my arm around him to hold him up.

* * *

><p>I don't like hospitals. I really, really don't like hospitals. For a lot of reasons. A lot of bad memories. But that was where I took him, manhandling him out to the car through the downstairs doors, and driving him there myself. I was concerned about him, to be honest, because yeah, he'd have to toughen up, but there wasn't much of him, just a skinny lad, and I guess I'd caught him on the hop. I hadn't meant to cause that much damage, but he'd just folded. He'd brought it on himself, but I'd taken it maybe just a bit too far.<p>

I sat in the waiting area while they took him off for an X-ray. I threaded my fingers together, between my legs, and looked at the floor, the tatty lino. Chewed gum, turning it over and over. Kept looking up, to see if he'd reappeared. The place just reeked of trouble. Sick people, damaged people, I dunno.

Eventually, felt like fucking hours, he was back with a nurse, still holding his sides, protective.

"All right?" I asked him.

But he didn't meet my look. Couple of cracked ribs, she said. They'd bandaged him up and given him some painkillers.

"Are you his friend?" she asked me.

"Boss," I said. "He works for me. Don't you, Stephen?"

He still didn't look up, or speak. Just nodded, vaguely, in her direction.

She looked at me for a moment, level. "Well you'll need to make sure he takes it easy for a week or so."

"Sure," I said, "sure. Thanks." And he shuffled past me, without even looking, and out into the car park.

I drove him back to the club. I think he might have been in shock or something, or just angry, humiliated maybe, that I'd had to teach him a lesson, or maybe he was just winded, because he never said a word in the car on the way back. His face was turned away, looking out of the window. I could see it reflected, part of it, in the wing mirror, miserable, streaky. He still clutched at himself, his arms wrapped round his upper body, like even breathing was hurting him, and when I tried to help him with the belt, he pushed my hand away, rough.

It was only on the drive back, in the silence, that I realised I'd need to find an explanation, for Cheryl. Because she wouldn't understand any of this. And it was obvious he was in a bad way still, with those ribs, though he must have been milking it for all it's worth, it was only one punch. When we got there, she looked shocked at the state of him. I told her the truth, that I'd taken him to A&E, but she wanted to know why. I glanced at him, and he looked back at me, hunched over, his hair dishevelled. So different from the lad who'd come in that morning with all the lights on. No lights on now.

"Better tell her," I said to Stephen. I knew he'd come up with something. No guy likes to admit he's been on the losing end of a fight. He hesitated. "Go on."

"It's my fault," he said, eventually, his breathing wheezy and uneven. "I was walking down the alley after I'd been to the cashpoint, I had my wallet out and I wasn't looking who was around."

I put my hand out and patted him on the shoulder. He was a good lad, really. In lots of ways.

She was all over him, obviously, because she's got a heart of gold, has Cheryl. She had him sat down in a second, and I brought him some water. Told her I'd found him like that. Which was also true. She just jumped to the conclusion that it must have been the same muggers got her, before. Which wasn't. But she wanted to involve the police. I told her we'd seen them in the hospital. Which was bending the truth, but I don't think Stephen would want the police knowing this kind of business. It's private. Man to man.

She was railing against the scumbags of the world when his phone fell out of his pocket. He bent to pick it up and yelped in pain, so I guess he wanted sympathy. I said we'd get him into the office, away from the punters, because I felt like we probably needed a chat. He'd been so quiet on the way back from the hospital. I put my hands on him to help him.

But he straightened up, fast enough. "No!" he yelled. I let go of him, taken aback. "Please … I just wanna go 'ome." He breathed heavy, in and out through his nose. His eyes burnt. "Me head's battered," he managed to get out.

"Yeah," I said, looking at him, because he was in a right state now. "Yeah, course." And I bent to pick up his phone. He took it from my hand but wouldn't meet my gaze. And then Chez stepped in, said she'd take him home. All I saw, as he left, was one glance up at me, from under his heavy brows. It burned, that glance.

But he'd get over it.

That was the last I saw him for five fucking days. It was inconvenient. I had to throw Rhys and Jacqui extra shifts. I had to work extra, Chez did. It was a major pain in the arse. And the weird thing was, as well as the irritation … I almost missed him being there. The way he scuffed his way around the place. The way he hummed to himself, tuneless. The way he never stopped talking. But then, he was a good worker, and we needed him. The fourth day, I bit Cheryl's head off.

"What the fuck is he playing at, Chez? We've got a club to run here."

She looked at me, shocked. "He was in a pretty bad way, love," she said to me. "I told him to take all the time he needs."

And I covered, nodded, swallowed what was in my head. Because it was so fucking deliberate. I knew he needed those shifts, needed the cash. But he was denying himself them, because he didn't want to face me. The little coward. I'd thought better of him.

The day after, I took time off. I'd had a late shift the day before, not getting in before half three, so Chez didn't bitch when I told her I'd put Rhys in charge of the bar the next day. I lay in bed until lunchtime, and then got up, threw on some clothes, and headed round to his flat to dig him out. Hadn't been there before. A dump, totally. Little way out of the village, down some ratty side road. Low-rise flats, a load of crap in the front yard, kids' toys. I stood outside, then peered in through the torn curtain at the window. There was a shadow, moving round in there. I knew it was him, straight off, just by the way he dragged his feet on the floor. Watched him pull on his hoody, careful, look in the fridge. Then reach for his jacket, his keys. He was coming out, any time about now. Perfect. I went into the lobby and stood in front of the door. I didn't even have to knock. The door opened. And there he was.

"Boo," I said.

He seemed stunned to find me on his doorstep, but otherwise didn't look too bad. A bit tired, maybe, his eyes dark. I pushed past him and into the flat. Wandered round it checking all the rooms for exes and kids, pushing doors open with my knuckles. No one. Just him and me. Just the way I like it.

"So what's been going on?" I asked him. "And don't even bother trying to lie to me, Stephen, you're not clever enough." And he did look incapable of responding. He just stood there, dumb, with his mouth open. "You've been off work for a week now. Why?"

He licked his lips, nervous. "Cos I was worried."

"'Bout what?" Jesus, his flat really was a hole. Every room was crap wallpaper, posters hiding the dirty patches. What a place to bring up kids.

"'Bout what you were gonna do."

I stood in front of him, finally. Took him in. The doubt. The fear. The uncertainty. The barriers he'd put up, to protect him from what we both knew he really wanted.

"Don't know what you mean."

"You know," he said, looking confused, miserable, his hair almost damp on his forehead. His eyes flickered away from mine. "After what happened." So he couldn't even look me in the eye, now.

"Let's get one thing straight," I said, as I willed him to look back at me. "You asked for that." Because he had to learn. If you get a slap, you usually did something to deserve it. Something bad. "Didn't ye?" Because he needed to accept it, and say it. Out of his own mouth. And it was usually so co-operative, that mouth. I needed him to co-operate. There was a pause. "Didn't ye?" I said again.

He shook his head, just a bit. Frowned. But it was confusion, not refusal. He'd get there. "If you're saying I asked to be beaten up off you, no," he said, protesting, but his voice was very quiet. Unsure.

I raised my eyebrows, and he looked down, and passed his tongue over his dry lips. I had plans for them, anyway, those lips.

"I just thought that you wanted me to kiss yer," he said, his voice so soft I had to practically stop breathing to hear it.

So we were back there again. Where I wanted him. We just needed to define the terms. I tried to find some words he'd understand.

"You crossed a line, Stephen. I say when and where. Not you." Because there would be a when. And a where. And if this went right, it was now, and here. I bent my head to find his eye contact, under those brows. He tried to avoid my eyes, but eventually looked up, his mouth trying to find words, but failing. "Understand?" Again, silence. "Do you … understand?" I asked him. And he nodded.

"Yeah." He almost whispered it.

About time. About fucking time.

"And?" I asked him.

"What?" Christ, he really was clueless. I almost smiled. I did smile.

"What? You can see why I lost my temper. Yeah?" My voice soft and low again. We were making up. The good bit is making up.

And then he said it.

"I'm sorry."

Good boy. I felt a release of tension. Looked him up and down. Loose-limbed, slender. When he was behaving himself, he seriously was good enough to eat.

"It's OK," I said, giving him a playful prod. Because I needed him to relax, now. And he looked anything but.

Our eyes met, and I held his gaze for just long enough for him to start wondering what might be next. I knew he wanted me, for sure. But his eyes were still clouded, shutting me out.

I circled round him for a moment, to break the tension, wandering round the skanky kitchen. Though actually, it wasn't that bad. Just poor, I guess. Mugs in the drainer, kids' cups, washing on the rack. His other life. I was gonna take him from all this, if he played his cards right. Make life easier for him. He just had to stick with me. And he would, when he realised how good it could be. I turned round. I looked at him. He held himself away from me, sideways on, like he could protect himself with a shoulder.

"Come here," I said.

He didn't budge. I knew he wanted to though, really.

"Stephen … I said come here."

It's how I call him, I guess. And he always comes when he's called. His feet shifted on the ground, and he started to move, slowly.

As he took a step towards me, I put up a hand to meet him, placed a finger on his chest. I could feel how fast his heart was beating, the pulse fluttering in his throat below that Adam's apple that I'd barely had the chance to taste, yet. He looked down at my fingers as they curled inside the collar of his shirt, his mouth open with anticipation. He kept looking down as I pulled him towards me, into my orbit. His lips pressed together, then. Looked like he wanted to cry again. But I pulled him closer, so he had to look at me. He had to. He blinked, uncomfortable, tense, as I leant towards him. Looked at his face, his brows, his lashes, up close. Long, sad lashes. Poor kid, really. His eyes stayed open as I closed the distance between our faces. And then I kissed him. His mouth stayed closed, resistant, as I sucked, brief, on his top lip, and let it go. But he didn't try to stop it. I pulled back a little way, and looked at him. And he was looking at me, now. I think maybe he was deciding something. Making a choice.

"Everything OK?" I asked him. Because I needed him to feel in control of this.

He didn't say anything. But he looked into my eyes, and his lips opened. Yeah, I think he was OK. He would be more than OK soon. I smiled. "You want me to stop?" I already knew the answer. I just needed him to know he'd made the choice, himself.

I raised my eyebrows, feeling him drawn back towards me.

And then his hand came up, and his eyes dropped to my mouth. I felt his hand on my neck. Very gentle, unsure. I closed my eyes to revel in it. He wanted me. I knew it. And felt him pull me in.

His mouth opened. His mouth opened. Just like that. His head tilted, giving me better access, and my tongue went straight in. Found his. And he didn't hold back. Not at all. He couldn't get enough. Like he was as hungry for it as I was. I breathed him in, his eagerness for it. Felt it go straight to my cock. Yeah. It was gonna be a good day, this one.

* * *

><p>I took it slowly, this time. Because the whole point was to show him how good it could be. He hadn't even begun to know that, how good it could be, why we would keep going back there, over and over, taking this sidestep out of our lives and into this place where there was nobody else, and no time, and no family, just him and me and what we were about to do.<p>

And there's something about sex in the afternoon, isn't there? There's no rush. You've got the whole day, and the whole night. You've got all the time in the world.

So I took it slow. Backed him into the bedroom, the one I'd seen before, the one I knew was his because it had his trainers all over the floor, his crappy cheap polo shirts chucked across the bed. And when we got there, I undressed him. Properly, this time. I watched as he winced when I tried to pull his T shirt over his head. Instead, I let him shuck one arm out of his sleeve, and then pulled it up over the other one. I didn't look at the bruise. Not right then. I had other things on my mind. But I was aware of a dark shadow, like a stain over his heart. I pulled condoms, lube, out of my jacket pocket, because I knew what I'd come here to do, and threw them down on to the bed, watched him follow them with his eyes, his lips open. So he had a bit of notice of what was coming. Then I threw my own jacket and hoodie off onto the ground, and I put my hands on him, and I started to touch. And I found that he loved it. It made it up to him, for the other stuff. It was like he melted and shivered at the same time, when I ran my hands over his skinny ribcage and shoulders, my fingers and thumbs brushing slowly over his nipples, and then kissed him. And for all he was so inexperienced, it was like he wanted to see me as well, tugging at my T shirt until it was off, and then putting a hand on my chest, burying it in the hair there, putting it right over the cross I wear, and coming in for another full, open-mouthed kiss. I felt his hands going for my buckle now, but I like to stay ahead of the game, so I pushed them aside and opened his fly instead, pushing the clothes down, getting my hands on his bare arse and pulling him into me. And then releasing him, and smiling at him.

"Out of these," I said, and watched as he shuffled them down and off, and sat down on the edge of the bed, almost meek, stark naked. And every bit of him – every bit – was beautiful and dirty, from the hairs that lay, flattish, soft, to his head, to his long bony toes. And I intended to enjoy it all.

I unbuckled, and pushed off the rest of my clothes, hearing them hit the floor, and for a second, I just stood in front of him, as he looked up at me. I could see how turned on he was, just by that. I think he'd have given me a blow job right there and then, because he put his hand round my cock, looking right up into my eyes, taking me aback a bit, and I had to remove it again, shaking my head. And I put my legs either side of him, and watched him shuffle further up the bed on his backside, his cock half stiff between his legs, and I let myself down on top of him, very gently, and I put my mouth against his neck. Sucked gently, on his Adam's apple, that stood out like a cry for attention, and then put my tongue out to lick it. And his head went back into the bed, and I knew he was starting to get it. How good this was going to be with me, if he played right. That his mind was about to be blown. I smiled against his skin, as I heard him moan. And then I started my way down.

And I found out a lot about him. That he liked to be touched, all over. And kissed. And licked. That he arched like a cat and gasped and curled his toes when I did it. That he had two brown moles under his right nipple, that matched the two brown moles on his cheek and the two on his neck, these two marks placed one slightly higher than the other, like a pair, and they did things to me, and it did things to him when I nuzzled them with my mouth. There was something just so fucking imperfectly perfect about him. Or the other way round.

In the middle of his chest, just off-centre, was the stain. That stopped me, for a second. And he seemed to freeze. But I kissed it better, gentle, felt him melt. And carried on down, stopping to put out my tongue to tease his belly button, and to rub my thumb over this wingspan tattoo he had on his skinny hipbone. I'd barely noticed it the first time. This time, it seemed fucking irresistible. It was like a brand, marking him out as mine. I'd spend more time on that, another time, but I gave it a nip with my teeth to declare my intentions. Then I followed the line of hair down across his belly to his cock. I had more time to appreciate it, this time. I kissed the inside of his thighs, and felt him open them, which carried a load of promise. Inhaled the musky sour smell of him. Then put out my tongue and licked his cock from base to tip, my hand under his balls, squeezing. Heard him groan and felt him squirm. And then put my mouth around him.

He knew he was being seduced. Through the whole thing, he knew what was happening. But the thing was, he wanted it. He wanted to be seduced. He wanted every damn thing that happened next. Everything I could give him. He wanted it all.

He lasted longer this time, but I knew he was close when I felt his hand gripping in my hair, twisting, and his pelvis push up. I dropped him from my mouth and heard this cry of disappointment escape his mouth before he could stop it. I looked up at him, from down there with my face in his groin, his cock still tickling my chin. I tutted.

"Not yet," I said to him. And crawled back up and landed alongside him, and looked down at him, amused.

Because there are other ways to come. And he was about to find out.

For a little while, I just lay there on my side, propped on one elbow, looking down at him as he looked back at me. I enjoyed the sensation of my own hard-on, knowing he wanted to touch it but not being sure if he should. I put out a finger and placed it at the top of his forehead, and then ran it down, lightly, slowly, between his eyes and down the ridge of his nose, bumping over his full lips, feeling them bounce and open. Down over his chin. Down his throat, feeling his Adam's apple twitch, sensitive, and on down to the centre of his ribcage, stopping short of the bruise. Where I poked him, and laughed. And he almost laughed back, still nervous I guess. Then I stroked his face, my thumb tracing the line of the socket underneath his eye. He looked like he was under a spell and he didn't want anything to break it.

"You're a strange one, Stephen," I said to him, and watched him smile.

I ran my thumb around those lips, now, rubbing the side of it into the groove of this scar he has, just above his top lip. He'd been in the wars and no mistake, had this lad. They'd never seemed so full, those lips, as when I ran my thumb around them. And just like that, he opened them, and let my thumb slip inside. Sucked on it, looking me right in the eye. It was fucking impossible to look away as I felt his tongue pulling at me.

And I decided he might be ready.

"Wanna try something?" I asked him, my eyebrows raised. And he looked back at me. And then nodded. I like that. Trust.

"OK," he said, blinking behind long lashes.

I reached down for the lube and dumped some over my hand, cold and slippery, as he watched, his breathing very shallow, his bottom lip caught between his teeth. And then I knelt between his legs, pushing them apart with a light slap, and bent over him, careful. And started to feel behind his balls for the right place. When I found it, his eyes seemed to widen. I grinned at him. Circled it a couple of time, with my finger. And then started to slip inside.

He was good as gold, really. His eyes hardly left my face as his body contracted instinctively around me, the muscles of his backside clenching, but then relaxing. He made a couple of nervous, guttural noises. But his legs still opened and lifted.

"Sssh," I said to him, and kissed him, and felt him starting to give it up. Felt his body arch as I pushed in a second, harder this time. It was dark, and tight, and soft in there, and my body was straining to get into him, my cock aching. But I took my time, because this had to be good for him. And it would be good. When I went for a third, he gave another cry, but his face was flushed, and he never stopped me. Not for a second. And I knew I couldn't wait now. Took out my fingers and kissed him, long and hard, felt his arms go round my neck, pushing my cock between his legs, letting my excitement build with his. And then released myself from his hold. Rolled on a condom, and lubed up. Watched him raise his knees again as I lay between them, as if he'd been doing this all his life. I grabbed his legs and pushed them up as far as he was comfortable, watched his mouth open in anticipation, his breathing rough and heavy, his lips wet with my saliva. Lined myself up, my hardness against his entry, soft, but tight, and resisting. And then pushed in, feeling myself breach him. Just enough.

This sort of cry came out of his mouth, involuntary, his breathing coming fast. I stopped, and let him adjust a bit, kissing him, his mouth, his jawline, his neck. Then started to force my way past that resistance. I was coming to find him. The heart of him. The beautiful dirty dark heart of him that only I'd been able to see, and only I could show him.

Another cry, sharper this time, like it might really be hurting. His eyes screwed up for a moment. His fingers grabbed at the duvet underneath him, balling it in his hands. I resisted the overwhelming temptation just to force it. Because he was clenched like a fist around me, and my balls were going into spasms of desire for more.

"Relax," I said, kissing him again, sucking on his bottom lip, looking down into his eyes, seeing the reassurance he got from it. "Yeah?" And he nodded, as best he could.

I pulled out a little way and thrust back in, careful, a couple of times, hearing the air knocked out of his chest and his skinny, convex abdomen as I did. Rocking together, opening him up. Feeling him lift those knees higher, feeling the hair of his legs as they started to wrap around my back, letting me in. Oh, Christ, he was getting this now. He was really getting this. He moaned. It sounded like part pain, part pleasure.

And then I pulled out a little way. And took a breath. And pushed in hard. Hard, and deep. And savoured it, my own eyes closing for a moment. Because there he was. He maybe didn't know it yet, was all.

"Oh!" he almost yelled. "F … fuck!"

But he'd know it, very soon. All I had to do was hit the right frequency. I felt my eyes narrow as I started to explore him. In, and out. In, and out. Rocking. Knowing him. Knowing that I was the first fucking person in the world to know him like that. Hearing his moans, and cries, his hands still grabbing at the sheets.

And then feeling a change.

"Oh … oh … ohhh … ohhhh."

Yeah. Right there. Right there. Feeling his leg muscles unclench a little. Feeling his hands unclench from the sheets. His fingers spread and relax. His arms come up to hold me, slipping under my arms, and pawing, almost shyly, at my back. His head going back into the pillow. His mouth falling open, and now almost no sound coming out of it at all. His eyes closed but soft, unscrewed. Like all he could see and hear and feel was me, inside him, finding this new place he never even fucking knew he had. My gift, to him. I smiled, my own breathing heavy now. And kissed him. And felt him kiss me back. Hungry. Felt him push his tongue into my mouth. Yeah. Oh yeah. There's no hiding from it, when it comes to find you. And he was completely found. Uncovered. Unwrapped. Exposed for what he was.

It was hard to hold back. I guess I should have been gentle, with it being his first time, and with him being a bit banged up, but I think I fucked him pretty hard. It seemed like once the first bit was over, he was up for it. He really seemed to be enjoying it. I watched him underneath me, spread, but curled around me, watched as his whole body flushed, and became sticky. He started to cry out again, but not in pain now. Like he just couldn't help himself. He'd be noisy, this one. I'd have to remember that.

Sometimes, he was watching me between eyes half-closed with pleasure, as if he wanted to see what I was doing to him, and it was unnerving. I fucked him harder to make him close them again, pushing his head back, or burying his mouth in my shoulder. And sometimes his cries were loud as hell, totally abandoned, and I put my mouth right over his and let him yell it straight out and into me, muffled. Because it was damn good job there was no one home, and I could only hope the flat upstairs was empty as well, because there was no disguising that. I should have hated it, that noise, the noise that said he was having the fucking of his life and loving it. But actually, it went right to my balls. It was a buzz knowing I was making him make that noise, like no other noise he'd ever made.

I knew he was working his way towards a climax when I felt his hands go to my arse, and grip hard. As if he was urging me to fuck him. And Christ, what a fucking turn-on he was. His whole body glistened and radiated heat. I wanted to lick him all over, and fuck him at the same time. I dipped my mouth to his neck and smelt him, the smell of his hair. He shone. I want to put out my tongue and drink the sweat off his collar bone, slick and shiny with the heat that I was creating for him. And I could feel myself starting to tip over, embrace that darkness that runs through me, that was him, let it embrace me, squeeze the fucking life out of me. I pulled back far enough to wrap one of my hands around his cock, that had been lying stiff and pink against his belly, pressed between us. Because I was going to decide the moment when he came. And straight away, he started to whimper and moan, long and drawn out, as I built up a rhythm. And then there's only his cock throbbing in my hand, and the unbelievable pressure of him around me, and the look of him, the sheen on his skin, the glow of it, and the smells of him, hot and desperate and male, and the pulsing of this strange dance, and the way his hips move in rhythm with mine, and for a second I almost lose it, almost forget which bits are him and which bits are me, and I never do that. I never do that. But then he brings me back by coming, pulsing in my hand, his body taut and rippling, cum slicking over his belly, and I take advantage of the contraction of his muscles to keep losing myself in him, four, maybe five times, blood thumping in my head, red behind my eyes, and I just let myself come. And god … fucking hell, it's good. It's so good.

As my pulse slowed, I became aware of his chest, heaving, under mine, sweaty. Pulled back and looked into his face. He looked stunned, but almost smiled. And I felt a returning response but bit it back. I withdrew, kneeling up, and chucking aside the condom. Then looked back down at him, spread out underneath me. He almost seemed to shiver under my gaze.

"Fuck," I think I said.

Because it really was that good. He was. He just was that good.

* * *

><p>We didn't leave that room until it was getting dark. Amy was out all day with the kids, he'd said, when we were lying beside each other again, him on his back, his knees raised, looking up at me. Me, propped on one elbow, chewing gum slowly, the other hand resting on his thigh, enjoying the discovery that he was a great fuck, strange and trusting and abandoned, feeling that we'd only just got started. Desire for him starting to build in my balls again. If I could, I'd have locked all the doors and had him again right there and then. But we couldn't stay there forever.<p>

I leapt out of bed, and started pulling on my pants, my jeans. I was aware of him responding to my withdrawal, sitting up tentatively, pulling on a T shirt, reaching for a glass of water for his dry throat. As if he didn't want it to be over, but he accepted that it was. Which was a good sign.

"Going somewhere?" he asked me. His voice was soft though. Not much of a challenge in it. Maybe a bit. He looked up at me, through guarded eyes, though what he wanted was transparent. And what he wanted was me.

"Well we can hardly stay here, can we?" I said, buckling up. "Amy might be back."

I knew he was watching me. He leant over and put the water down.

"Right, so, going to the club then?" Like all he wanted was to be with me. I laughed, zipping up, clasping my cuff back on to my wrist. This metal cuff that I wear. I don't even know why. It ties me, maybe. The boys bought it for me, one birthday, though I think someone helped them choose it.

"No," I said. Looked down at him, his head leaning back against the wall behind the bed now, his chin turned up, his face tipped up towards me. Not one thing left between us. Not a shred of resistance, not a barrier. He belonged to me now. "No. We're going to mine."

This half smile of surprise started to form on his face. It did things to me, that smile. I reached out and stroked the hair across his brow. "Cheryl's away all night, so …" I watched his mouth open wider, in anticipation of what I was offering him. My hand came to rest under his chin. My thumb stroked his cheek into a smile. "You wanna?"

His face lit up like a firework. And he chucked back the duvet, and practically threw himself at me like an exocet missile.

"OK," I said, and as he ran around, picking up clothes off the floor and shoving his arms and legs into them, any how, I found myself laughing.

* * *

><p>There are nights that are just nights, and they're good, but eventually they blend into all the other nights you've had, the ritual of them, the touching and sucking and fucking and leaving, always with leaving at the end. And there are nights that seem like just nights, good nights yeah, but just nights, and then you look back, and you can't help but think that maybe they really had something going on. That something happened. Something that wasn't totally in your plans, one of those surprises I don't like, that I spend my life avoiding.<p>

Because I asked him back, it was my decision, but … yeah, it was a surprise, that night. He was. I got more than I was expecting. I'm not sure if that was a good thing.

I remember him almost running to keep up with me and we walked across the village to the flat. Coming in through the door, kicking it shut behind us, grabbing the whiskey and two glasses and leading him on to the bedroom with a glance over my shoulder. I remember pouring us both drinks and handing him one, telling him to take off his jacket, and him smiling. I remember looking at him over the top of my glass, feeling the liquor warming my throat, as he took a swig, then put his down and came very close, drawn in by me, because this was what I wanted. He was. And him leaning up for a kiss, bold as brass, but stopping at the last second, to check it was allowed, and me smiling, and him putting his mouth against mine, like he had that first night, and me tasting him and the whiskey mixed with his breath, and feeling something racing through my bloodstream.

And after that … a lot of things, that blend into each other, but all of which seemed to involved the planes of his muscles, the touch of his skin under my hands, his mouth and tongue, lapping like a thirsty cat. His hands, touching me. Him practising his blow job technique, his head between my legs, any idea of shyness so far out the window it was in Kansas. His body, surprisingly light, manouverable. Flexible, I remember discovering, with a flash of intense satisfaction. More pliable than Macca had ever been. I had Stephen down at the end of the bed, his legs practically wrapped around my neck, his head hanging halfway off the bed, while I watched myself fuck him in the mirror on the wall, the crucifix hanging down over him, bumping against the muscles of my chest. I even had him straddled across my lap, his arms clinging on around my neck for dear life, my mouth sucking hard on his perfect round skinny shoulder, biting down, until I moved one of his hands onto his cock, and let him finish himself, while I fucked myself into the most intense orgasm I'd had for a long time, feeling him collapse against me, exhausted, spent, and my mouth stayed pressed against the underside of his jaw, nuzzling, amazed. He was amazing.

I let everything go a bit, I think. I don't, as a rule. I hadn't had that much time, just to enjoy, to luxuriate, since … well, there was Macca's flat, but it was usually straight down to business. Not since a weekend, a long time ago, maybe, when I bought Chinese, and ate it off somebody's chest, licking the sweet and sour off his pale salty skin.

I even let him lie beside me, after, my arm around him. And I teased him a bit, drawling. "You sure you haven't done this before?" And listened to him laugh, and blush, and shake his head, knowing that he'd done good.

And then I think we must have slept. Because the next thing I can remember, my hand is reaching for him and he's not there. There was just this gap in the bed, where he'd been, soft, lumpy, dozy. I lifted myself up onto one elbow, with a strange sensation. Wanting to find him there. Looked around, squinting through sleep. And there he was.

He was standing by the bed, in just his boxers. His whole body lit down one side by the lamps. His shoulders and chest strange and golden in that light, exposed. He was pulling on a T shirt, shoving his arms into it, but when he knew he was being watched, he gave me a half smile. I guessed he must be leaving. And it surprised me. People don't leave me, not people like him. I tell them when they can leave.

"You goin'?" I asked him, breathing deeply, sleep still making the words thick in my mouth.

"Just felt a bit cold, that's all," he said, pulling the T shirt over his chest, his skin disappearing under the cloth.

He wasn't leaving then. He rubbed his arms, the hair standing up on them. Vulnerable. I could see the goosebumps pricking his flesh. He looked unsure what to do, whether to stay or go.

I held out an arm to him.

"C'mon," I said, low, "come back to bed, then."

Strange, to hear myself say it. No harm in it, I guess. But why would I care if he left? He'd have to be gone by morning, no matter what. But it wasn't morning yet.

He hesitated for a second, as if he was as surprised as me to hear it. Then this smile spread over his face. Happiest I'd ever seen him. Just lit up, from inside. And he vaulted over my body, like a kid, and landed on the mattress beside me with a thump, laughing, looking at me. And I laughed. And we settled back down together, my arm around his shoulder.

I had no idea what time it was. Early hours, probably. It was hard to keep track, just me and him in there. Like I said, it's a different world, with different rules. But I couldn't sleep. I could feel the world outside the door, pressing in. Stephen, lying inside the crook of my arm, in here, that worked. But it couldn't last. Never did. Never would. I turned my face away, my fingers pressed to my forehead. And it seemed like he couldn't sleep again, either. Like he was too excited, or something. Suddenly, he spoke. His voice more serious than usual.

"It's all right, innit?" he said, and turned his head up to look at me.

All right? What did he mean, all right? It was what it was.

"Hmm?"

"When it's just you and me," he said.

I turned my head to look at him. His look was open. Like an appeal. Weird. Like he'd been able to see inside my head. I laughed, short. He was uncanny. Unbelievable, really.

And then I felt him take my hand. I didn't pull it away.

"I'm just sayin'" he said. His fingers curled round mine. He sounded sad.

I breathed in, slow. And sighed.

"You know wha', Stephen? You talk too much."

Because there's some things you just can't say. Even if they're running in your head.

But my head still inclined towards his. And I heard him laugh.

"Something needs to shut you up," I said, opening my eyes to take him in.

"What?" he said, puzzled, tipping his face up, and he was all eyelashes, and open mouth, and teeth.

And all I had to do was move my arm to lift him up towards me, and he got it.

I held him cradled there, as I kissed him, his head going back to take it, his mouth, completely mine.

"Ssshhhhh," I said, breaking away, my finger over my lips as his eyes opened and he looked up at me. Totally, completely mine. It was enough to steal your senses, that look, if you were that way inclined.

I transferred my finger onto his lips, hushed him up. And he smiled, his face rapt.

He laughed as I pushed him away with that finger, and he came to rest inside my arm again.

I knew it couldn't last.

"I don't want Cheryl finding out you're here," I said, "Or anyone else for that matter, sooo … " I felt suddenly tired. Too tired to chuck him out, tell him to go. I waited for him to take the hint himself. But he's never been that quick on the uptake.

"No," he said, soft, leaning across me to look at his watch, "it's only half two."

And he looked at me, a plea in his eyes. Please don't send me away.

I knew he was lying. I'm not that easily fooled. But sometimes, it's just easier. I was so tired.

I sighed, just wanting to sleep. "OK," I said, closing my eyes, and felt him settle back down, his head against my shoulder, his arm creeping uninvited but unrepelled across my chest. And I lay and listened to his breathing, his chest against mine, slowing and deepening, and sleep just came up from nowhere, when I'd given up expecting it, and took hold of me, and dragged me down with him.


	13. Chapter 13

****_Here's another part. Thanks so much for the comments, they make me think such a lot. Afraid this one has more of what chips calls effing and jeffing :D. But yeah, I thought about it more, but sometimes, that's just how I hear Brendan's voice.  
><em>

**Trouble**

**Part 13**

I regretted it, obviously. It's never a good idea to let them stay like that. He was just very hard to chuck out, and I thought, where's the harm? But I should have known better. I did know better. I don't know what got into my head.

I should have heard Chez come in, in the early hours, but I didn't. I should have realised that light was coming in through the blinds, but I didn't. I don't know – I don't usually sleep that soundly. But then I guess it had been a pretty heavy night.

First thing I knew was someone was calling my name, like it was Cheryl's ma or something, getting me up for school.

"Brendan … Brendan?"

And right there, I was awake. Fuck. Fuck, it was morning, and she was back. Not Cheryl's ma, but Cheryl, she was back. And she was coming down the corridor. And he was still here.

He gave a little moan as I rolled over and pulled my arm out from under him, fast.

"Move," I said, pushing him off the bed and onto the floor at the far side, every hair standing up on my head with the urgency of it. "Move - go!" And I watched him slide onto the floor, still floppy with sleep, confused.

The door opened. Chez. She stood in the doorway. I pretended to be opening my eyes, made a big deal out of it. I thought I'd be able to get rid of her, fast enough. But just my luck, she was pretty blue, needed to talk. This mate of hers, with not long to live. Christ, why now? But if she did, she did. I tried to send her off to stick the kettle on so I could work out how to get rid of him.

"You look tired," she said, hovering, reluctant to go.

I laughed. "I didn't get much sleep," I said. That much was true, anyway. I like to take advantage of an opportunity when it presents itself. I can sleep when there's no one in my bed, ready and willing.

But she went, anyway, pulling the door behind her. I let out the breath I'd almost been holding.

His head popped up from the other side of the bed. He was wide-eyed, panting.

"That was close, wonnit?"

"I want you out of here – now!" I said to him, brutal, to shock him into moving. And got up, fast, to find my clothes, aware that he was doing the same, picking things up, hopping his way back into his trackies, his trainers. I felt a wave of anger towards him, just for being there, hopping around the way he was. In truth, I was fucking angry with myself, that it had been such a close shave. That I'd nearly let that happen. Thank Christ Cheryl hadn't noticed the clothes all over the floor, the smell of sex in the air. I suppose at least, after he'd got dressed in the night, he didn't have it all hanging out, swinging in the breeze like I did. But I think it would still have taken a lot of explaining to Cheryl why he was sleeping in my bed with his arm around me. I'd been a fecking idiot. An imbecile. I was better than that. Wouldn't let it happen again. I'd make sure of it.

So when I was dressed, I had to go out there and listen to Cheryl pouring her heart out about losing someone. And in the background, I had to watch him creeping his way out through the kitchen to the back door.

"Don't change," Cheryl said to me, suddenly, her eyes tired and needy, gazing up at me, "please don't change."

And it caught me off guard.

"What?"

"Cos everything else is," she said. "I think I know something, and then, I just get that punched in the stomach feeling again." She sighed. It wasn't like her, to be so unhappy. She was the cheerful one, the positive one, while I'd spent half my life in the shadows. But I could see how much it mattered, right now, that I stayed the brother she thought I was. And that's exactly what I intended to do. I made a resolution, right there and then. That figure, that shadow standing the kitchen, listening, waiting for his moment to sneak out, I'd have to make sure he didn't come here again. Things had got a bit … free, last night. But I needed to lock it back down, secure it. That wasn't me.

"I don't want to lose my best friend, Bren," she said to me, her voice full of sadness.

And I realised I didn't even know what that felt like. Not for a long time, anyway.

Then she started ranting about Lynsey and Mal, and how bothered she was that they hadn't told her they were doing the deed. Behind her, I watched him edge on tiptoe towards that door. I offered to batter Malachy for her, but she wouldn't have it. Made her smile, though. Just a bit. And I pulled her into a hug for a cry, and finally gestured him to get the hell out of there.

"It's OK," I said to her, as he disappeared. "I love you." And I kissed her hair, and held on to her, tight.

It was a bitch of a day, anyway, the rest of that day. I was knackered from lack of sleep. And then Cheryl called me later from the club in hysterics. Some nutter had broken in, hadn't taken a damn thing, but left a dead fox in the place. Her and Rhys had checked out the CCTV. There was some guy in a hood and mask, clear as day, came right up to the camera, like he owned the place, she said. When I got there, she was in a right state. No one seemed to have a fucking clue what it was all about. Rhys seemed pretty quiet, but that might just be because I made him get rid of the stinking corpse.

And on top of everything, I knew I had to put a lid on the thing with Stephen. With Cheryl coming back, I'd not had a chance to have the chat with him. Lay out the ground rules. He had to know, that this was between us, or there was nothing there at all. Nothing. No debate, no discussion, no negotiation. And I already knew that he couldn't keep that gorgeous mouth shut. It was always open, always talking, babbling, unself-conscious. It was a risk. The chat was needed. I texted him to let him know I needed him to start his shift twenty minutes early. I knew what he'd be expecting when he got it.

I was waiting for him in the cellar when he finally showed up. He was late. And he came in bold, smiling. All the barriers down, no hesitation, he just sauntered right up to me, grinning, like he'd been given the keys to the kingdom or something. I suppose he was expecting me to smile back. To put my arms around him, pull him in. To kiss him. That it was on, between us.

"Glad you could come at short notice," I said, looking into his face, a mixture of coyness and openness. Too open.

"Course," he said, looking right up into my eyes, sure that I was wanting him, and what I was wanting him for. Cocky.

His hands closed around the lapels of my jacket. Possessive, almost. "Couldn't keep me away," he said, his voice suggestive.

I looked down at them, his hands. On me, again. I put my hands over his, and unpeeled them.

"We've an unexpected delivery," I told him, my voice even, "ten crates, out the back." I watched doubt creep over his face. Then disappointment. His smile, the one I gave him, faded. I took it away, that smile. "When you're ready," I said. Slapped him on the shoulder, like guys do. Walked out and left him to it.

Don't think I went back for another hour. You have to judge these things just right. Let him stew, just long enough. Then went down there again. Watched him working, his back turned to me, resentment, rejection, in every muscle. I took a beer from one of the crates and cracked it open with a hiss. Let the bottle top fall to the floor.

"Drink?" I asked him, walking across. "Think you deserve a break." I smiled as he turned his head. I could see the puzzled frown on his face. The pout of his bottom lip.

He still took it though.

"Yeah, ta," he said, soft, turning towards me so I could see him properly.

He reached for the bottle and I felt his hand close over mine. I didn't let go. I just relished the feeling of his fingers. He looked down at our hands, together. There was a moment, one of those heavy, charged moments where it feels like there's static in the air. He looked back up at me, and stepped closer, his hand still folded over mine on the rapidly warming glass. He was looking at my mouth. Then he leant forward to kiss me. His lips were very close. Fuck, his mouth. I felt the warmth of his breath on my lips.

"Stop," I said.

And he pulled back, sharp.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" I asked him, frowning. Because it's not like I made him do that.

"Sorry," he said, unsure, "I just thought …"

"What did I say about - "

And suddenly, we weren't on our own. Someone else's feet coming through the door. Who the fuck …?

"Hi guys!"

Our hands separated, fast.

His ex, the one I thought I'd dealt with, the one I put back in college to get her out of the way, coming to the club, to our place, all bright and perky and barging her way in as if she thought she belonged there. I watched him blush and try to look happy to see her. He was transparent. To me, anyway, he was transparent. Not to her. But then I knew him so much better than she ever would, now.

He'd forgotten his phone, apparently. She handed it over to him. "Thought you might need it," she said to him, giving him one of those meaningful looks, intimate, conspiratorial, something that the two of them knew about that no one else did. "In case someone special calls." She waggled her eyebrows at him, knowing. It was like a slap in the face, that intimacy between them. He laughed, nervous.

"Brilll, thanks," he said to her, but I could see his heart was pumping fifteen to the dozen. He swallowed. "Um … I really need to get on with this delivery me, so …"

She was a bit put out, but took the hint, anyway. She was never dumb, I'll give her that. Was gone with a cheery, "See ya soon!" But she knew. She fucking knew he was seeing somebody.

I turned back towards him.

"Don't worry," he said, immediately afraid, trying to placate me, "she didn't see anything."

"Yeah?" I asked him. "How do you know that?"

"Cos she definitely would have said," he said. So she was one of those. Liked things all out in the open, up front, above board.

His eyes scanned my face, nervous, waiting for a reaction. "It's cool," he said.

"For your sake, Stephen, I hope you're right." He held my gaze, but submissive, looking out from under his brows. "Yeah?"

He nodded. He was getting this, now. How it went down. He was learning. He'd already learned a lot.

So, false alarm, that time. I nodded at him, and walked away. And stayed away from him, the rest of the shift.

Part of me wanted to reward him, for saying nothing, for holding it together, for starting to get it, that this thing had to stay quiet. That quiet didn't have to mean it had to end. While the club was full of punters that night, heaving and sweating, and the music thumping, I watched him working the bar, bending his head to listen to orders, reaching for bottles, levering off tops, putting a hand out for money, a half smile, nothing more, subdued. And part of me was itching to send him a text, tell him to meet me in the Gents in ten. I'd already be in there, and I'd hear him come in, just by the sound his feet make on the floor, and I'd reach out and grab him from one of the cubicles and drag him in there, and lock the door, and he'd be shocked, but he'd laugh, and then he'd stop laughing because I'd be putting my hand over his mouth, hushing him, looking at his blue grey eyes working out what was coming. And then I'd be pushing his clothes off, and kissing him, inhaling him, tasting him, touching him; then turning him to the wall, and I'd show him that keeping it quiet doesn't have to mean you can't have any fun, though I don't think he'll ever be quiet, he squeaks like a fucking mouse, and I'd tell him that, and he'd protest, but he'd know it was true. And afterwards, after he'd caught his breath, after my mouth had been buried in the back of his hair, I'd turn him back round and buckle him up and shove him out the door again and tell him to make himself scarce while I waited, and to stop fucking smiling, and he'd walk out of there with his Chesire cat grin all over his face anyway and red to the tips of his ears.

But I didn't think he was quite ready for that, yet.

And part of me was spooked, I'll admit. We needed to cool it down, just for a bit, that was obvious. So I didn't send that text. And I went home alone, knackered, and fell into the bed that still smelt of him. I'd get Cheryl to change the sheets tomorrow. Another time, I promised myself. But it's funny how hard I found it to stop thinking about it, once the idea was in my head.

And it's strange, how good my mood was the next day, knowing I was working later. How easy it felt, suddenly, to get up, take a shower, dress, hum along to the radio, check my reflection in the mirror. And it surprised me, what I saw, looking back at me from behind the tache, that day. I'm not a bad looking guy, I know that. I've taken care of what I was given, I take a bit of pride. A few war wounds. A scar, just above my eyelid that reminds me that I should have started fighting back earlier. Cos if I've learned anything, it's that you get the other guy first, right? Before they get you. Only a fool waits to get hurt. But the guy I saw looking back at me that day had something about him. Couldn't put my finger on it. I dunno. A glint in the eye, maybe, that I hadn't seen for a long time.

I set him to work outside, that day. I kept it friendly. Distant, but I threw him a few smiles, a few glances. And I watched him glow. He looked back over his shoulder at me as he went out onto the balcony, on his way down into the yard to work. I knew he wanted me to come and get him. And when I thought he'd been there just long enough, when I'd done the books and banked the money and worked up an appetite, sharp and expectant, I decided it was time to go out to do just that.

I came down the steps of the club to call him in. But the first thing I saw was that she was there again. Amy, standing with her back to me, talking to him, distracting him. She sure was hard to shake off at the moment. Harder than I'd found back at the start, when I'd had them squabbling so easily. But it was like nothing could bring me down, that day. As long as he could keep his mouth shut, the mouth that was opening right now with anticipation when he saw me coming for him, it would be just fine.

"No offence love," I said to her, "I'm not paying him to talk to you all day." But I kept it light, jokey. No point in arousing suspicions. And he looked good enough to eat, that day. Sun was shining. Air felt sweet, like I could eat it. Kind of day you can still walk around in shirt sleeves, for all it was start of November. Kind of day for peeling clothes off. I could barely wait to get him on his own, get the door locked, bury my mouth in his hair, my tongue in his mouth, my cock inside him. My balls were buzzing with it.

"Oi," he said, "that's the mother of me kids that you're talking to." But I could tell he wasn't annoyed. His eyes never left mine. And I knew he wanted me back just as bad.

"You don't have enough lead in your pencil, mate," I said, watching him arch his eyebrows, quizzical, a half smile on his face. "Time to come clean, Amy," I said, leaning down to her, "who's your real daddy?" And she laughed.

"You what?" he said, all mock indignation. "You cheeky git. We've only seen pictures of your kids." His lips were drawn back from his teeth in a smile. "And you probably downloaded them off the internet." I watched him trying to bait me, my head on one side. I don't often let people talk to me like that. But from him, I guess it was fine. It was just a laugh.

I leant in to Amy again. "I'm all man," I told her. "Isn't that right, Amy?" But my eyes barely left his, the teasing little fucker. He knew exactly how much man I was.

"I'm not taking sides," she said, conciliatory, holding up her hands. So at least she realised there was no way anyone in the world should be getting between me and him.

"Spoken like a true diplomat," I said to her. Then turned back to him, gestured at the crates that he was stacking for collection. "When you've finished with these, there's a coffee waiting." I turned away but held him with my eyes as long as possible. Long enough to see the faraway look on his face, as he watched me go.

"Ta," I heard him say, in that nasal accent I was starting to hear in my dreams sometimes, all North West twang and longing.

That's why nothing could bother me, that day. Not when he was looking at me like that, like he just couldn't wait to be taken. But there was something about those two together, that nagged at me. I don't even know why. I mean, she was annoying, but normally I'd barely have noticed her. But I couldn't let go of it, that he had someone he was that close to. I hadn't really bargained for that. I'd thought he was pretty much alone in the world, estranged from her. And it was a constant risk, that closeness between them, him and his Amy, heads together, babes in the bloody wood. It was like they shared all their secrets, and I knew he wouldn't be able to keep it shut forever. But I could hardly get rid of her, she was the mother of his kids, well one of them was his, though he saw the girl as his own as well. One of the things I liked about him, that he was a stand-up guy when it came to his kids. I'd just have to work round her. And it was worth it. He was worth it. He was worth the risk, always.

When I got him down in the basement, I did some digging. I watched him working for a while, the muscles of his back supple under the hoodie he wore to keep warm at work. Then,

"Nice girl, your Amy," I said to him.

"Yeah?" he said, carrying on working, stacking bottles onto high shelves, his backside round and tight as he reached across the benches to do it.

"Yeah," I said, waiting for more, prompting. It came.

"It's weird though," he said, "we get on so much better now we're not together."

"Well," I said, "pressure's off, isn't it?"

He laughed. "Too true." I watched his shoulders flexing, the back of his neck, soft. I wanted him.

"You get people assuming you two are still an item?" I asked him.

He turned round, completely unaware. "Sorry?" he asked me, beautiful but dumb, as always. I handed him his coffee, and he blew on it, looking over the top at me, totally confiding. Relaxed.

"You and the lovely Amy," I went on, seeing the uncertainty in his eyes as he drank. "Hmm? Living together, sharing responsibility of the kids." He said nothing, just put down his mug. He seemed to be thinking about it. And I had no idea why any of this mattered so much, but it needled at me. "C'mon," I said to him, smiling, "don't tell me you haven't been tempted in picking up where you left off. Eh?"

But he looked like he didn't understand.

"I've moved on," he said, definite. Sounding sure about something for once in his life. Didn't say what he'd moved on to, but I think he was looking at my mouth. Just like I was looking at his.

"Well I'm glad to hear it," I said to him, soft. I felt a sense of relief that's unusual for me. I just wanted to be sure that mouth was mine, and no one else's.

He stood, unsure again now, in the quiet of the cellar, waiting to see what would happen. He understood now, that he had to wait for me. And I leaned in and kissed him, soft. That mouth. It was fucking irresistible, that mouth, even when it barely responded, like now, cautious, wary. I kept my eyes half open so I could see his face as I kissed him. Watch him let the barriers down, let me in again. I pulled back an inch and waited to see what he'd do. And what he did was pull back, for a second, to be sure. And then put his mouth against mine, soft and open. And there was something about him. Because for a second there, everything else faded out. For a second, there was no cellar, and no club, and no Amy, and no kids, and no Chez, and no Eileen, and no fucking responsibilities or expectations, there was just me and him and his mouth against mine. Sometimes, he seemed like such a kid. He made me feel like he was my responsibility, to help or to harm, and it weighed heavy. But sometimes … I dunno, when he just gave it up, it was like ten years of holding it together just fell from me, like it was nothing, and I was just like him, finding out all this stuff for the first time.

I felt his hand go to the back of my neck, and pull me into a long, full kiss that was going only one place. And I was totally gone. Damn near. I'd have put my arms around his waist, laid him down and made lo … had him right there, if I'd had my way. And I forgot. I forgot a lot of stuff. He was like an anaesthetic, Stephen. I forgot the front, and the struggle, and being left, having no one but myself to rely on, and I forgot the lights of the truck, and what it felt like to be punished, over and over. I forgot being a Dad, a brother, a son, and the deals with god, and the devil. I pretty much forgot Brendan Brady, full stop. But mainly, I forgot I hadn't locked the door. And it was still wide open.

There was a sound of footsteps, retreating back up the stairs.

I broke away. Sirens went off in my head.

"What's the matter?" he said, soft, still wanting me, still trying to paw at me, pull me back into a kiss. Christ, he could be so stupid.

"Shouldn't you be getting down the cash and carry?" I asked him, my eyes never leaving that door.

"I thought –," he started.

"Why don't you do as I say, Stephen?" I snapped back at him, to wake him out of it, his stupid forgetfulness. "I've got a business to run. Yeah?"

And I watched his face fall. The shutters come back down. His eyes, resentful, a sulky pout on his mouth.

"Well, go on." I probably sounded angry. He looked more hurt than anything now, blinking at me, silent. "Go!" I said, impatient. What a fucking dreamer he was, seriously. He deserved a slap for being such a dreamer, thinking he could just kiss me like that with the door unlocked and wide open.

He walked off. I watched him go as he did. And it was hard, sometimes, sending him away like that, rough. But it had to be done. This had to be sorted.

I knew she'd seen, obviously. It had to be her, sticking her nose into Stephen's business, hanging around him like a bad smell. As soon as he'd gone, I followed her home. She looked surprised when she opened the door. The awkward smile plastered across her face told me everything I needed to know. She'd seen us. I'd not been with him a week, and we'd been fucking found out. And I had to stop it. Any way. I'd do literally anything. I told her we needed a chat. Invited myself in.

She made me tea, in a nice cup. We laughed. It was painful.

She hadn't been spying, she said, defensive. It was just something about the way the two of us had been getting on. And she was glad he'd found someone so nice. I felt hysterical. She talked about it like it was a relationship. Like a relationship between a man and a woman. Meeting each other, getting on, seeing each other. It didn't seem to bother her at all. She must have been mad. She seemed sane, but she couldn't have been, if she could think that.

"You so don't know me," I told her, hearing myself laugh, almost out of control, as she perched, and smiled, nervous and polite, like a fucking potential mother-in-law.

She told me it was fine. And my secret was safe with her. More than safe. I mimed relief. The very fucking idea, that she would think she knew anything about me.

She was pleased for us, she said, like we were getting married. And then she gave me a hug.

A hug.

I sat stiff, her arms clinging around my neck.

And I guess I knew then it was never gonna work. Never. I got myself out of there and went back to the club knowing that I'd lost my mind, before. I must have been crazy, to think I could ever forget who I was, who Brendan Brady was. That there would always be the cellar, and the club, and Amy, and kids, and Chez, and Eileen, and fucking Macca, and responsibilities and expectations, always, that that was who I was, and it would never fucking end.

I waited for him. Not sure how long for. I didn't think. I just waited.

"'Ey," he said, coming staggering in eventually with a load of bags, chattering, words coming pouring out of his mouth, as usual, making no sense, "the girl from the cash and carry, she got the hots for me well bad. Check this out," he said, getting out some flyer or vouchers she'd given him, some piece of trash, the slut from the cash and carry, smoothing out the creases, holding it up. I looked at it, and smiled. He seemed so excited. And so, so stupid. He was nothing, really. He was just a stupid, talkative flirt.

So I punched him again.

The same thing as before. Him doubling over, his breathing gasping and ugly and laboured, as if he couldn't find air to breathe with, as if I'd taken that away from him. I cradled his head in both hands and made him look at me.

"So I just had another conversation with Amy," I told him. "She's really happy for us both." A whine came from his chest and throat. "Isn't that sweet?" But he didn't reply. "Isn't it?"

And I hit him again, for good measure, pushing my fist into his ribcage to be sure. His knees seemed to collapse underneath him, so I held him up, heavy and awkward.

"Shut her up," I said, into his ear. "Or I'll do it for you."

And then we were done. Mission accomplished. I needed to get out of there. The air was sour.

"Okey dokey," I heard myself say. And I pushed him down onto the ground, like he was nothing. He was nothing.

And left.

The next day couldn't have been any more different if it tried. I was in a foul temper, from the second I opened my eyes. That guy I saw looking at me from the mirror the day before, the stupid, deluded, optimistic one, he was history. To be honest, I thought I'd feel great, getting everything back under control, getting a grip on things, nailing it all down, but I couldn't shake this irritation with the world and everyone in it. Everything was a ballache. I could seriously have done with being left alone, that day.

And classic timing, there she was again. The ex. Breaking into the only damn time I got to myself, the only time I wasn't at everybody else's beck and call. Coming into the club before opening, nagging, asking if I'd seen Stephan. And I guess I made a tactical error. I made no attempt to keep her sweet. I just wanted her to get the fuck out of my face, my business. I could barely stand to look at her, knowing that she knew.

And suddenly, she was wittering on about hospital. That he should be in hospital. I dragged my eyes away from my newspaper.

"Hospital?"

So she knew that as well, then. That he'd been hurt. I span her some line about him getting in the middle of some hen night. Told her he was a big lad, he could look after himself. Tried not to notice the way she was looking at me. She hesitated, as if she wanted to say more. Then turned slowly, and walked out.

So by the time he came in, I was starting to think he'd never get this, never get it sorted. I should have bailed on him, fired him, anything. But instead I took him down to the cellar again. He came slowly, his hand pressed over his side, protective. No smiles this time. No touching. He held himself away from me, a safe distance, like a buffer. Could barely meet my gaze. But he still came.

"Everything all right?" he asked me, like he knew there was trouble and he was in it.

How could he even think everything was all right, with her sniffing around? He should have realised, should have known, that fights between men stay between men. Like the other stuff. We don't talk about it.

"What have you been saying to your ex?"

I moved to close the door and he winced, cringing away from me.

"What's the matter with you? Huh?" It made him look at me, anyway. Man up a bit.

"Just … I thought that you were gonna …" His voice was almost a mumble.

"If I hit out," I told him, patient, trying so hard to be patient, "there's a reason. But I don't have a reason." His face was miserable, but still beautiful, his eyes half hidden behind those yard-long eyelashes. "Do I?"

"No," he said, looking down.

I put a finger under his chin and lifted up his face to me.

"Are you sure about that?"

"I said no." His voice was completely submissive.

I don't know why, but his voice hurt me sometimes. Like I felt it, deep inside.

"I don't want Amy sniffing around," I told him. "She's asking questions about the bruises. I ain't answering to her."

"I'll speak to her." He almost whispered it, looking at me now.

"Hm," I said. But we needed something else now. Desperate measures, and all that. "You still got Rae's number?"

"Yeah," he said, eventually, looking puzzled.

"Call her up," I told him. "Ask her out."

He looked surprised. Uncomfortable. Confused. Agonised even. I raised my eyebrows. I could see there was something he wanted to say. He tried to lean in a bit closer.

"I thought that we were …" He stopped.

"What? You thought what?"

Surely. Surely he didn't think this was anything more than sex, did he? It was just a release, a pressure valve, letting off some steam. This wasn't some fucking love story. We weren't going to end up walking down the street holding hands.

He shook his head, in retreat. "Nuffing," he said. Like he was starting to realise that maybe he'd been a bit stupid. I decided to let him off.

"I believe you've taken your punishment for letting Amy find out about us," I told him. "Keep your mouth shut about those bruises," I said, prodding his chest, "and let's concentrate on no one else finding out – and how do we show everybody that nothing's going on?"

I bent my ear to his mouth, waited for him to answer.

There was a pause. He lifted his head. Fixed his jaw.

"I get myself a girlfriend," he said, between what sounded like gritted teeth.

"Yeah!" I said. Drew it out, whispering it into his ear.

When I looked at him, he was shaking his head. He looked miserable. But no matter, as long as he did it. I knew how to make him happy again. It'd only be temporary, after all.

"I'll do the same," I told him, thinking vaguely about the women I'd seen brawling in the village that morning because they had nothing better to do, one of them that student I'd blown off the night we went to the casino. Seemed like a lifetime ago now, but she'd been keen. "There must be plenty of desperate girls grateful for a night out with me." He looked like the idea made him want to cry. "Don't you think?" I said, into his face, trying to get a response. After all, a bit of jealousy's no bad thing. And his eyes came up to meet mine, narrowed. But he still shook his head. And there was something, behind those eyes.

And then he exploded.

"I don't wanna see Rae, I wanna see you!" He thrust his chin out, pleading. It caught me on the back foot. "Can't we just tell people what's going on?" His hands came up to my neck, trying to pull me towards him, drag me down to him.

I recoiled from his emotion, messy. Put my hands over his, threw them off.

"Hey," I said, "_nothing_ is going on. Now we both need to get girlfriends because _you_ shot your mouth off, _you _messed up."

He went quiet, suddenly. Like he just gave up. "Maybe I should go back up to the bar now," he said, pulling away from me. And he looked so sad, and scared, and he was always doing this, pulling away, always fucking pulling away from me when I thought I had him.

"No," I said. And what surprised me was my hand came up and went to his chest, to keep him there. Not hard, no force, I just touched him. I hadn't even thought I was gonna do that. My hands went to his shoulders, feeling suddenly awkward. I just needed to … I just needed to still him, to keep him there. I just needed him to be OK with it. "No … I …" I felt a strange urge to stroke the hair on his head, pull him in to me, but I fought it. I settled for stroking the back of his neck with my fingers, cradling his face. "I don't want you to go."

He stopped. His face took on this soft expression, sort of hopeful and hopeless at the same time. His mouth open. My thumbs rested either side of his jawline. I heard a breath escape me.

"Stephen …"

I just whispered it. Stroked one thumb across his Adam's apple, that was lifting with his shallow breathing. I felt him breathe, under my touch. But he interrupted. Broke the moment. Words, he just fucks everything up with words. Why does he do that?

"Sorry – I shouldn't have even said anything …"

"But you always do," the words came hissing out of my mouth now, pure frustration. I fought to get it back under control. But it was hard, with him looking at me like that. "You always do." It was a whisper. And my thumbs came to rest on his mouth. That mouth. That mouth, that was the source of all my troubles. "You just can't keep that mouth shut, can you?"

I felt suddenly tired. If he'd only shut up, we could be fine. More than fine. We could have what we had the previous week. Over and over. No reason for it to end. Not now. Not ever, really.

"I don't wanna have to keep doin' this," I told him. "Eh?"

"Then don't," he said, as if it was that easy. As if it was that fucking simple. Christ, he had no idea. As if I could do that, just stop. As if I wouldn't do that, if I could.

And I snapped.

I reached out a hand, my fingers clawed. Grabbed his face and squeezed hard. He winced, his eyes watering, wide with fear.

"This is your fault …" I started. Because it was. It always was. If it wasn't for him I wouldn't be in this fucking mess.

And there she was again. Someone in the door. The one with the biggest nose, the most interfering little bitch in the whole village.

Fuck.

Amy.

Fucking Amy Barnes.


	14. Chapter 14

_Thanks for the comments again. Here's another update. It's a bit all over the place this one, but I hope it reads OK._

**Trouble**

**Part 14**

I froze.

"Sorry," she said, shock in her voice, "the barmaid said you were down here."

I took a breath. I had to think on my feet. It was just a joke. We were joking around, right? We were always joking around, teasing.

"Just telling young Stephen here that he needs to toughen up, isn't that right, Stephen? Yeah." And I forced him to nod, pushing his face up and down. Then I released him, the white pressure points where I'd dug my fingers into his cheeks turning red. His face looked sore. "Always getting yourself in trouble, aren't ye?" I patted him on the cheek. He looked back at me, burning with resentment, but he kept his mouth shut for once. I laughed. Turned and took in her shocked face, so fucking prim. Back to him.

"Good talk," I said, with a nod. And got out of there, as fast as I could. It was over to him. He'd have to persuade her it was nothing. And I knew how much he wanted to be with me, now, that he was well past the point of walking away, so I knew he would.

We had a plan, anyway. An understanding. I put my side of the bargain into action, straight off. There was nothing for me at the bar right then, the place suddenly felt fucking claustrophobic, so I cleaned up in the gents, washed my hands, smoothed my hair, the tache, pulled on my jacket, and went to the pub for a pint.

And lo and behold, Little Ms Endowment Fund, the student with the silver spoon, sitting at the bar, all alone. India. Couldn't have been better. Her mate had let her down, apparently. As if I cared. And she was grateful that I'd been there earlier, to break up the catfight her and her mates had all been having. Because I'm good like that. I'm a real peacemaker. But I like grateful, I could work with that. I can't say she pressed a single button for me. Her come-ons were an embarrassment. I asked what it would take, to make it up to her for the casino. Something special, she said, fluttering her eyelashes. Special. I could imagine what she had in mind. It made me shudder. But it was just for show, so who gives a toss? I'd find a way to get out of it. And in the mean time, things were coming back under control. Stephen would talk to Amy, we'd both get ourselves some cover, and I'd do the rest. It was all gonna be fine.

And then the next thing I hear, he's quitting.

I was still at the flat when I got the message from Chez, next morning. He was packing it all in, she said, his job. Didn't even want to come in. She was on her way over to the diner to meet him, find out what it was all about, try to talk him round. I knew, straight off, that he was making some kind of stand. Stupid, misguided. I abandoned work and went over to find them. Pushed my way in through the doors, wary, not sure what I'd find. Saw them sitting opposite each other, talking quietly, serious. She was urging him to think about it. And I've never seen him look so determined. Or so godamn irresistible, the light from the windows hitting the side of his face, the structure of his skull completely visible, those cheekbones I was coming to know so well, the touch of them under my hands, him fine, me rough. Strange mixture, Stephen. Part fragile, part tough. I've met plenty of either. But I never met anyone who was so completely both.

He avoided my eyes. Never even looked up when I came in. Just kept on listening to Cheryl, nodding, impassive, unhappy. Then shifted in his seat and suddenly frowned and hunched over, his tongue sticking out between his teeth with the concentration of not letting out whatever he was feeling.

"Are you in pain?" Cheryl asked him, all concern.

I intervened. "Ribs still giving you gyp from that mugging, yeah?"

And Chez being Chez, that was enough to distract her.

"Did you ever hear anything back from the police?" she asked him.

"Unfortunately not," I answered for him, waiting for him to look at me. Wondering how long he thought he could keep it up, shutting me out. "Didn't get a good look at his face, did you, Stephen?"

And still he didn't look. He fixed on Chez instead. Told her he'd made his decision. We'd see about that.

"Fair enough," I said, getting ready to stage a tactical retreat. "Call in at the club for your last shift, you can collect your wages then." And I walked out.

Christ, he drove me mad. I'd never known anyone so fucking obstinate. Did he really think that he could get away that easily, that I'd let him go, after what we'd done? Seriously? I mean, I knew I'd win him back, but it put me in a fury, the very idea of it. I was angry with every fucker I bumped into, and I bumped into a couple. Had to sink a couple of drinks in the club to settle me again, steady my hands. I had to get on top of this. Had to. No one walks away from me like that, what I'm offering.

I made sure I was on my own when he came, almost running up the steps of the club, his feet light, like he thought he was already free or something. Then he clocked me sitting at the bar, waiting for him, and stopped.

I held up his wage packet between two fingers, and he came over and stood in front of me. Like a schoolkid, waiting to be disciplined.

"I take it quitting was Amy's idea," I said. Because it was obvious, now. He'd done the one thing he shouldn't have done, the one thing I'd told him never to talk about. He'd told her about the bruises. Or she'd just guessed, from what she'd seen. It hardly mattered now. "I thought we were mates," I said, before he could get a word in. Because anger wasn't gonna work right then, I knew that. It was softly softly. He needed to know I cared, all that. That he meant something to me. Something that made up for the rest, I guess.

He looked at me, uncomprehending.

"Mates?" he said. Like he couldn't believe it.

"Yeah," I said. Because I thought that was what he wanted. To be my mate.

And he gave a laugh. One of those joyless ones. Cynical, bruised. I'd not seen that on him before. "Yeah," he said, "cos we're just mates, aren't we." Turned away. Started to leave.

Stopped though. Came back. Interesting. I hadn't even moved from my stool.

"D'you know when I went out with Amy?" he asked me, all up in my face like the big man. "I hit her. Did you know that?"

That almost threw me. I looked at him. I didn't know that. No, I did not know that. I'd heard rumours, that he'd had a dodgy history, got up to all sorts that he shouldn't have, that he'd turned his life around since. People spoke highly of him. Good lad, people said, young Ste. Had got himself into a mess, but understandable, with his family. No details, ever. He'd got his head straight since, they said, so good luck to him. But if I'd heard that, that he'd hit her, I'd have given it no credit. Scrapping with other guys, sure, I bet he'd had his share. But her? They seemed so close. There's not many relationships can survive that. That should. Seems like I was wrong about him, this time. And I thought I knew him, inside and out.

I shook my head. I don't know what he wanted. A medal?

"No," I said, feeling a moment of revulsion from him that I hid. But he kept talking, like always.

"Oh yeah. And even though I hated myself for what I was doing, I got off on the fact that she was scared of me." What was this? A fucking sermon? _Hail Mary, full of grace, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death? _He seemed so fucking angry. There was no need for it.

"Is this romantic flashback going anywhere?" I asked him.

Frustration burst out of him. "What I did to her, you're doing that to me!"

I wasn't having that. He was demented, if he thought that. I stood up. Towered over him. "I've never hit a woman in my life, Stephen. Ever."

And he almost crumbled, right away. So much for righteousness.

"Right," he said, looking scared. But trying to stick to his guns, I'll give him that. "And that makes you better than me, does it?"

"Yeah," I said. Because some things just are that simple. He had this all wrong. This wasn't like … that, battering somebody, somebody weaker than you who needed your protection, it was … it was between guys. It was different. Totally different. I don't know what had got into his head, or who had. I couldn't believe he was making such a fucking fuss over, what, a couple of little punches? It was nothing. Nothing. And he asked for it. I had to do it, because he wasn't getting the message.

But I changed tack. There was no point, scaring him more. He didn't understand. He needed someone to explain it to him. Me, I guess. Cos we do, don't we? We need someone to explain it to us. I put my hand on his neck, reassuring.

"Look," I told him, "we're blokes. When we step outta line, we get a slap. That's how it is." I knew these words. I knew them so well it was like it wasn't even me saying it. I hesitated for a second, looking at the hurt and confusion on his face, almost losing my thread. "I ain't saying it's right or wrong, it just … it just is."

And that was enough. Just that. He was back with me. They always seem to work, those words. His eyes dropped, resigned. His mouth opened. He looked miserable. But he was with me.

"If I don't … she's gonna tell people," he mumbled. The stroppy guy who'd walked in with a spring in his step and stood up to me was long gone. He sounded completely whipped. I pitied him, really, letting someone else run his life like that.

I came over confidential, gentle. I needed to work out how much of a risk this was, when he was so close to being back on side. "Is she serious?"

"Amy dunt joke about stuff like this," he said, adamant.

No. I'll bet. She was just the type to stick her oar in, make his decisions for him. But I just needed to calm him down, for now, so I could sort it.

"Well, listen, I think we're blowing this out of proportion, don't you?" I held his eyes. "Seems to me that Amy can't let go of your past together. And let's be honest, Stephen, what you did to her? Ain't the same as this. Is it?" He was silent. Confused again. That was one thing that never seemed to change. He was still very easy to confuse.

But I didn't get a chance to get an answer out of him. Chez was there, clattering up the steps. Asked if we'd kissed and made up. I winced. Then he walked off, fast. Only to dump his jacket, start his shift, he was back on side. But I mean, for fuck's sake, Cheryl. I love her to bits, but … fuck.

And I knew I couldn't leave this to him. I needed to deal with the lady herself, seeing as she liked to be in charge, switch things up a gear. I waited until Chez had him restocking the bar and escaped for a while, went back round to his crappy flat. Stood watching again, as she moved about in there. The kids, playing on the living room floor. Saw her take a pile of washing into one of the bedrooms to sort. Then let myself in. Amazing, how easy that lock gave way. They should be more careful.

When she came back, I was taking my chance to have a cuddle with Lucas. I love kids, when they're that age. It gets harder later, when they start to ask questions, when they start to realise that maybe their Da ain't Superman. It hurts, that does, the look in their eyes. But they're great when they're little. He was heavy and squirmy in my arms, that little boy, adorable but hard to handle. He looked like his Dad, I thought to myself. Fair hair, soft skin, blue eyes.

She wasn't, on the whole, as hospitable as the last time, was Amy. She was scared, obviously. I meant her to be scared. I told her I'd heard Lucas crying. She wanted me to put him down, so I did, hushing his grumbling. No point in antagonising her any more than I had to. He started to cry, the kid, wail, when he felt the loss of me. Much like his Dad.

I told her to keep her nose out. I kept it pretty friendly. She's a woman after all, even if I couldn't see what the hell Stephen had ever seen in her, and I meant what I'd said. Women are out of bounds. I was never going to hurt her, call it a rule of mine, and her a Mum as well, but she didn't know that. I dropped a couple of hints about her being there alone at nights when he was at work.

She stood and looked at me, pale, while the kid wailed behind me. She seemed rooted to the spot.

I held a toy truck out to him with one hand. He stopped crying and got up, came over. Took it from me. Let me stroke his hair, make it all better by giving him what he wanted. So very, very like his Dad.

She didn't like it, though, our chat. Told me to get out. So I left her to think about it. I felt I'd made my point.

Now all I had to do to get this back on track was keep him away from her while the dust settled.

That night, I took him to a hotel. Treated him. Made him feel special. He wasn't sure at first, thought I was taking the piss when I came up close behind his shoulder near the end of shift and asked him if he could get away. Watched his wary expression turn into a blush, something more like pleasure, as I teased him, turned on the charm. Then almost reluctant arousal, excitement, casting me glances as we worked the last hour that pushed my temperature up a few notches, and then him looking away, not wanting me to think he was giving in too easy. And after we'd locked up together in the early hours, barred the door on the last punter, I turned to him.

"Coming?" I asked him, my eyebrows raised.

And he paused, and then just nodded. "Sure," he said. "OK."

Not quite the guy who'd launched himself at me the week before. But he was starting to understand, now. There were limits. Rules. It just was what it was.

I took him off in the car, drove him into town. I liked driving him, glancing across at his profile, dark, in the seat beside me, but unmistakeable, that upwards tilt at the end of his nose. It was the only time he was ever quiet, looking out of that window, listening to the music playing on the stereo, his hands between his legs, glancing at me sometimes, biting his lip in anticipation.

I took him somewhere anonymous, but decent, with a big bed and a gleaming en suite that made his eyes practically pop out of his head. Raided the mini bar for whiskey and then got him into the shower. He was a bit shy at first, unused to the intimacy, unsure of what I wanted, maybe, but it never takes him long to warm up. One of the things I like about him. All I had to do was pin him against the tiles, and nuzzle the underside of his jaw while the water ran down off his hair and eyelashes, and on down over his face and body, and he was all mine. On his knees almost before I even needed to ask, putting his mouth around me and sucking until all I could hear was a roaring of the water in my ears that sounded more like an ocean than a shower.

And afterwards, when I'd had a chance to catch my breath, wandering naked into the bedroom and towelling off, rough, I pulled him down onto the bed and gave him his reward. Kissed his clean, warm, damp skin all over, minding the bruises, already fading to sepia, and then his balls, and the very tip of his cock, hearing him gasp. Then rolled him carefully onto his front and pulled his tight round arse up towards me, deciding to do a bit more finding out about him. Blew between his cheeks, hearing him whimper, holding them open with my thumbs. Put my tongue in there, teasing. And then stuck it slowly where the sun don't shine. And heard him yell.

I kept it up just long enough to get him to melting point, to dissolution, to the point where he'd never have denied me anything, and then I pulled out, knelt up, replaced my tongue with my cock, and pushed inside. For a moment, a long moment, I just held us there, panting, wanting to laugh with the intensity of it. Then I fucked him until he forgot his own name. He still knew mine, though.

"Brendan!" he moaned, his head down on his arms, as I buried myself in him, the front of my legs slapping against the back of his, pumping until he came in my hand. And I still didn't stop. I kept going until I was done. He cried out with a sort of ecstatic exhaustion as I filled the rubber inside him. I think it was him anyway, it might have been partly me as well. I felt for a second as if someone had stolen every one of my senses, ripped them right out of me. But I had to make him secure. I had to. And this was the best way I knew how. Hard, and long, and slow.

I let him stay the rest of the night. We lay for a bit, sweaty, relaxed, uncoiled, doing stuff I don't usually do. Touching. Teasing. Biting. Joking. I pushed down the covers as he lay there on his front, his head resting on his arms, and stroked the hair on the back of his thighs with my fingers, just looking at his backside, the blush on it, knowing it was mine, watching his mouth curve into a smile. Then I kissed that arse, gave it a smack, and he twisted his head round to look, and laughed. It was good, hearing him laugh again, a proper laugh, even if it wasn't as free as before. He rolled onto his side, his cock just soft between his legs now, and looked at me through curious eyes, blinking behind those long lashes, biting his bottom lip, gently. He put up a hand and rubbed his thumb gently across the tattoo that covers my upper arm. The one I had done with Peter, one day, as a dare. Long time ago now, before … all that. I knew from Stephen's face he was thinking stuff and not saying it. That his head was full of a bunch of questions that he wasn't asking. _What is this? What am I? Am I the first?_ But he was quiet. And if he wasn't going to ask them, I sure as hell wasn't going to give him any answers.

It was hard to believe there was violence in there, somewhere. Had been. His hands traced my muscles, unclenched. I wondered where he'd put it. What changed. If he'd changed. Does anyone, really?

I stroked the damp hair on his belly to distract him, and he just breathed, soft, through his half open mouth, looking back at me, until I gave his soft cock a tug, possessive, and he laughed, low, under his breath. Then suddenly, he was yawning, knackered, and when I was done looking at him, running my fingers over him, memorising the curves and flats of his flesh, I reached out a hand and put the lights out. For a while, he seemed restless, uncomfortable, lying beside me, shifting, one of his own arms wrapped around his ribs as if out of habit. But then I put my arm out and pulled him close in the dark. For a second, his body stiffened, surprised. But then I felt him settle. Get comfortable against my chest, his arms relaxing, reaching for me. And after a few minutes, twitch into asleep, heavy and warm. And once he'd gone, I slept as well, holding what was mine. Better than I had for a while.

And in the morning, no one interrupted us. I woke up when I realised he was starting to stir. I had to prod him and call his name to get him to open his eyes. Watched him focus on me, and yawn, and stretch, and frown, uncertain, as if he thought I might be about to throw him out of bed. And for a moment, I wondered what it would be like if we didn't have to go back.

I'd pull him into me. Bury my mouth in that curve between his neck and his shoulder, breathe him in, his warm, sweaty, musky morning smell. Feel his cock stirring, mine hardening. Roll him on top of me and feel him rest his cheek on my chest for a moment, listening for something, to see if I had a heart, probably. And then he'd look up at me, his hair flopped in his eyes, like it was now. I'd brush it out. And I'd feel him drop his head and nuzzle his mouth against my chest. And then start to work his way down, disappearing under the covers, and reaching his destination, and I'd groan. His mouth. His fucking mouth. Sensitive, rough, willing. We'd be going nowhere.

But we had to go back.

* * *

><p>We dressed together quickly, and I sent him down to wait in the car while I paid the tab. Then took him back to the village, dropping him off on the back road so no one would see, and letting him walk home. As I drove off I caught a look at his face in the wing mirror. Part satisfaction, part sadness. Like he was sure of what he wanted from me now, but not sure what I wanted back from him. Which is how I prefer it, I guess. It should have all worked perfectly, after that. The perfect night, and the perfect day. If I'd only known.<p>

Thing is, he stopped answering his phone. Iit niggled at me like a toothache. All day, I tried ringing him. I left messages, and I don't do that. I don't have to chase. And I knew he'd never have shut down on me like that again, not after the night we'd just spent together, not without someone telling him to. Amy, it had to be Amy, getting in between again, where she didn't belong. My fingers itched. I was aching to go after her. Tell her to fuck off and leave us alone. I'd never felt irritation like it.

For a while, I got distracted. This guy, pestering me in the club. Tony Hutchinson's loser of a brother, seeming to think I might want to invest in the business. Interesting. Because their business was about as safe as the Titanic after being introduced to the iceberg, as far as I could tell. I wouldn't have given them a dime, even if I had a bankful to spare. So I had to get rid of him before I went after her, but it didn't take long, and in the end, I didn't have to hunt her down very far.

She was coming down the dark alley beside the club. The one where the bogeyman can jump out at you. She damn near leapt out of her skin when she saw me, which was a good start. She shook, literally trembled, like her teeth would start chattering if she didn't clench them together. I told her she was on her last chance. But she found a pair from somewhere, stood her ground, I'll give her that. Not many women have stood up to me like that. Or men, actually.

"Or what?" she said, dripping with sarcasm, "you'll hit me? Or do you save that for your boyfriends?"

That word. That fucking word. It sliced into me. She knew fuck all about me, and him, and what we were. I swear, in that moment, I could have killed her. Wiped her out. Freed myself from her nagging, whining voice, her and her kids a millstone round my neck, a forest of thorns between me and him.

But I've never gone there, with anyone. Man or woman. I've come close, a couple of times, but I've never crossed that line. I begged her to let me cross it for her, and I left her. She looked fucking terrified. It gave me intense satisfaction. Not as intense as he did, obviously, but … yeah. There's something to be said for having that kind of power. Better to be feared than loved, they say, if you can't be both.

And then there was just him to deal with.

"Amy says you broke into our flat," he said to me, a challenge in his face, steaming into the office where I was just minding my own business, cradling a shot of the good stuff and trying to clear my head for my next move. I sometimes wish everyone else would go do the same and mind their own. I looked up at him. Suddenly, I was tired of this cycle, getting him under control, and starting to lose him again as quickly. It felt like something had to happen, and soon, to get us out of this. I needed to know I could count on him being there.

I sighed. Shrugged it off. Went for the good guy act. Sometimes, it doesn't pay to be too defensive.

"I didn't break in, Stephen. The door was open, I heard a child crying. What would you have me do, walk away?"

"Well she says that you threatened 'er," he said, folding his arms like some kind of stroppy fishwife.

"I didn't," I said.

"Right, so why didn't you tell me then, eh?" He was like a rottweiler, sometimes. Once he'd got his teeth into something, he just wouldn't let it go.

"Lucas was bawling his eyes out, Stephen. The only reason I didn't tell you was because I didn't want to bad mouth Amy."

His face was set in a frown, but more puzzled than anything now.

I got up and knocked back my drink. Moved round the desk to get close to him. Sensing that he needed something from me.

"To be honest," I said, confessional, "I was kind of hoping you'd be there too." And I watched his body language change, straight off. Softening. His tongue came out between his lips, thoughtful.

Then he gave me a smack on the arm, sharp, playful.

"You should of told me," he said, annoyed, but not really, nothing I couldn't handle.

"Well, why didn't you answer my calls?" And that had him. He pouted.

"Right," he said, soft, realising he'd been in the wrong.

"Yeah," I said, looking at the shape of his mouth, the fullness of it, remembering the words that came out of it last night in that hotel. He sniffed.

"Well she said if you come near her again, she's gonna ring the police, so …" He was gabbling, again.

The police. That was new. A whole different ballgame. An escalation. Something in my nervous system vibrated in warning. I knew he never would. But her? Yeah, she would, if she thought she could prove it, and I needed that like I needed a hole in the head. Talk of the police always puts me on edge. I've spent the occasional night in the cells in my life, when luck's abandoned me, and I hate it. Not the stink, or the hard benches, or the claustrophobia, or even the contempt of some pathetic sad little cop who thinks he's got a collar, I can deal with all that. But the loss of control. The loss of freedom. It feels like dying.

"When did she say that?"

"Well, a couple of hours ago, so just stay away from her, all right?" His voice and his face were pleading, intimate. Should be, after what we'd done last night.

For a second, I avoided his eyes.

"Yeah," I said, letting him think he'd had his way. It works that, sometimes. "Yeah." I nodded. And watched his face relax into something more welcoming. I guess he thought he'd won this one. And maybe he was hoping for a repeat of last night. I'll admit, part of me was tempted. It was hard not to be tempted by that face, by that body, standing close in front of me, like an invitation, offered, because I felt like I couldn't get enough of him. I'd only just had him, and I wanted more. And it's funny, if I'd known what was gonna happen, if I'd been able to look into a crystal ball and see what was coming, I'd have wasted no time. I'd have kissed him right there and then, drunk him in, all of him, and locked the door, and had him in the office, put him down on the desk, and fucked him senseless, feeling his strong skinny legs wrapped round my waist. I wanted to take him in all sorts of ways, like a fever. But I didn't. I didn't know. I had no clue. And I thought I couldn't risk two nights in a row. No matter how much the buzz in my balls said otherwise.

"Here," I said, holding up a roll of cash for him. "Phone Rae, take the night off."

It was a wrong move, I guess. But I didn't know that then. His face fell, his eyes widening with reproach.

"No!" he said. "You can't buy me and then tell me who to sleep with, no!" He was furious, actually. Angrier than I expected. I guess maybe he'd thought I'd changed my mind on that, after last night. But I didn't see how we could, not with Amy on our case. She was so close to blowing this whole thing wide open. And there was just no way I was going to let that happen. He should have known.

"This is how this is gonna go, Stephen," I told him. "You either take the money, or you walk away. It's up to you." Easy, really. Easy choice. I knew he'd never walk away. Every muscle of his obstinate face, his jaw jutting out at me, said he couldn't.

We make our choices, don't we? Make our own beds. I'd made mine, obviously. I chose him. In all his weakness, and with all his flaws, his uneducated, innocent, worldly mind, his trashy beautiful perfect body, and his hustler's face, as likely to steal your wallet as your soul. I chose him, to be with me. I don't even know why, why does anybody, but yeah. You, Stephen, I chose you. And now all you had to do was accept the deal.

I watched him look from the money in my hand, to my face, and back. A look of resignation. His mouth turned down. But better than nothing. He seemed to be making a decision, a choice of his own. He reached out his hand, slowly, and took the money. Looked down at it in his hand, his eyes shadowed behind his lashes. And then walked out, slowly, without another word.

* * *

><p>Must be a terrible thing, to die by fire. The guy who owned the club before us died in a fire, right there. I asked around. Whole place went up in smoke and ashes, with him inside it. Unfortunate. And spectacular, apparently. His remains were unrecognizable. Unidentifiable. I found myself wondering sometimes if even he knew he was dead. What he'd thought, in those last few minutes, before he stopped being him.<p>

I always imagine when I go, it'll be sudden. Like one minute I just won't be there anymore. Not being licked by flames and stifled by smoke until I pass out in agony. Sometimes, I imagine drowning. Just floating on the surface, free of everything, until I run out of energy to stay up, and I just let myself sink, and I don't have to be me anymore, Brendan Brady, I don't have to be anyone or anything. Sometimes, I wonder if it would be a relief, to die like that, to just be extinguished. Other times, I think I'm talking prime bullshit. No one in their right mind would want that, fading away, sinking. You want to keep on burning, fierce and hard, until time stops.

I tend to think I can control most things. And I can. Even the things that burn inside me, that threaten to consume me, if I let them. I've made an art of it. I surrender to nothing, and no one. But some things you can't control. They're down to fortune, the luck of the draw. It's how you deal with them that counts.

Something happened, that night. Something that I wasn't expecting, that I hadn't planned. Something that blew everything into the sky and brought debris raining down on all our heads. At first I thought it was an act of God, but now I think it might have come from the other place.

Someone set fire to the restaurant in the village. Amy and her kids nearly died.

And everything that had seemed sweet, and easy, in the palm of my hand, safe, and secure, became a battle that I had to fight, tooth and nail. A battle to keep hold of what I'd got. Him. I had to keep hold of him. That was the thing. I had to keep hold of Stephen. Whatever it took.

* * *

><p>It was Bonfire Night. Appropriate, when you think about it. You couldn't make it up, fireworks going off everywhere, the sky crackling and exploding and falling in on our damn heads.<p>

She wasn't even supposed to be there, Amy. But you can trust her to end up in the middle of someone else's business. Stephen said she was at home, with the kids. But it turns out she was doing some babysitting for Tony Hutchinson's bird, last minute thing to earn some cash. Had Leah and Lucas with her. I knew because I'd seen her pushing the kids over to Tony's that night. And I knew they'd been looking for a sitter. And Hutchinson's swanky flat was over the place that got torched. Unlucky.

And Stephen was … with me, obviously. Well, not with me, he was at the bonfire at The Dog with Rae, just like I told him. But I left the bar to Cheryl's tender mercies and went over there to see how he was getting on. Texted him to meet me outside. And when I arrived, there he was. Standing on the deck by the river, shifting from foot to foot, waiting for me. He'd always be waiting for me now. I wouldn't have wanted to be his date, sitting inside wondering whether she'd been dumped.

He came straight up and put his hands on my arms, like he was entitled.

"You've got to leave Amy alone now, right?" he said. So he still had Amy on his mind, then.

"Have I now?" I asked him. Because I was getting sick of him thinking he could tell me what to do. He was getting above himself again. The way he talked, it was like we were equals, sometimes.

"I know her more than anyone, right – she won't say anything about us." He was trying to placate me, poor Stephen, always stuck in the middle. But I felt a lick of rage, instead. Yeah, yeah, they knew each other more than anyone. They were close. They had history. I fucking hated it, that fucking co-dependency they had going on. And he needed to stop letting people push him around.

"No, Stephen, she most certainly will not," I said, thinking of the terror on her face when I'd left her.

"And when she's calmed down, then I'll talk to her," he said.

I smiled. "She's got you wrapped round her little finger, hasn't she?"

"No," he said, offended, getting uppity.

"No?"

"You scared her half to death," he said. "She's too frightened to leave the flat, now."

"Really?" I hadn't expected her to be that easily put off. "Wow, that's … that's funny, cos a little birdie told me she's out babysitting tonight."

He looked puzzled. "What?"

"Yeah. Poor Amy, frightened for her life but not too frightened that she's gonna turn down cash in hand and drink free wine. So you see maybe, just maybe, you don't know your precious Amy like you think you do. So here's my suggestion to you, and please, bear with me – you go back in to Rae, cos Stephen, she's going to want to know where you are. See ya."

I heard the cruelty in my voice. I hadn't meant it, but he drove me nuts. It was like the words erupted from me, from this place I keep locked down. And in response, he pulled another face that I'd rarely seen before. Less than happy, let's say. Sour, bitter. I don't know why, but these things always fucking seem to go off, somehow. And I'd done everything I could to keep him sweet. He turned and went back inside.

Looking back, I know I should have followed him straight in, never let him out of my sight, sorted it out with him then. Things might have been different if I had. But I stayed outside, decided to be absolutely sure of the damn thing. I don't even know why I did it, really. Because I was angry with him, I think, and it was careless, unnecessary. Maybe a demon danced its way across my soul or something. But I called her up, Little Miss Righteous, pushing two kids around before she was eighteen, and left her a little message. Let's just say I left her in no doubt that when I make promises, I keep my word.

Then I went in after him. Looked around. But by the time I got in there, there was no sign of them.

They must have left together.

* * *

><p>So I was stuck there on my own with a bunch of no-marks like Hutchinson, the highly resistible India eyeing me up, wanting drinks and the flattery I was in no mood to give her, watching a load of poxy fireworks, when we heard it. An explosion. And there was no way that was a Roman Candle, unless it was a bloody big one. No one moved at first, just looked towards the village. Eerie. And then an orange glow that shouldn't have been in that bit of sky, and smoke. Like this moment where everything went into slow motion, freeze frame, while people just looked at it, knowing it shouldn't have been there. And then a few voices, asking questions. Disbelief, because no one ever sees disaster coming, do they? And then it was just like everyone was on the move, heading towards that weird light. Slow at first. Then running. Tony leading the way. Maybe he just knew, all along, that it was his place. He wasn't what you'd call a lucky guy.<p>

By the time I got there, the place was a dog's breakfast, if the dog's breakfast had had paraffin poured all over it and set on fire. Bedlam. All hell broken loose. Fire engines, ambulances arriving. Someone had made a mighty big mess. And the club was practically opposite. My club. It looked like some debris had landed on the roof, smouldering, threatening to spread, the fire alarms were screaming and Chez was doing her best to evacuate the place, the girls shivering in their less than totally there dresses. "Thank God!" she said to me, wide eyed, as she saw me, and I helped her get them all out and down the stairs into the yard, then went back in, ignoring Cheryl's shouts, pointed an extinguisher at the smoking roof, and terminated it with extreme prejudice. There was no way I was losing this place, just because Tony fucking Hutchinson had left his oven on. And I wasn't ending up like the last guy, either. I look after my investments, take care of what's mine. When the cylinder was empty I stood and looked up as water poured down onto the floor, onto me, from the blackened roof. There was a fair bit of damage. Fixing that would take time. Some things do.

But that was the easy part. Down in the square, it turned out there was some collateral damage. The human kind. This guy Roach, Gilly Roach, crying his eyes out, roaring out his wife's name, over and over. Chez's mate, the one with the cancer. Still inside, apparently, and there was no way anyone was coming out of there alive now. He sounded like an animal, crying for its mate. I've heard some things, but I've never heard anything quite like that. And Chez went to pieces, throwing herself into his arms, sobbing, looking to give and take what comfort she could get from him.

I stepped back, unneeded. Asked around to get the measure of it. She'd gone in, this mate of Chez's, to get Amy and the kids out. Got them to the window. Never came out herself. No one else inside. The others had been shipped off to hospital to be checked out, and it sounded like they were OK. Kids not too bad anyway; Amy was touch and go, bad case of smoke inhalation. And I could hardly get my head round it. I just couldn't believe someone had done for me what I'd never have done for myself. Not knowingly. Not that way.

There was one more, though. Malachy Fisher. Had been right outside and took the full force, people were saying, tried to shield that no good wife of his for no reason other than he loved her. Blown right off his feet, glass and metal everywhere. People's voices were quiet. Didn't look too good for our Mal, then. Strange, weird feeling. I'd known him forever, since the old time. You don't forget the guys you kick about with, even when they fucking beat you every time. Him, and Peter, and me, heading up to the playing fields with the other lads, me hating it, the mud, the showboating. Peter tackling, grabbing at shirts and arms, laughing, teasing, his breath condensing in the air, running rings around me, confusing me, his dark hair plastered damp against his face. Malachy celebrating yet another fucking goal, sliding on his knees, his arms out wide, letting the world just fall into his lap. But I never wanted to be him, for all he was the good-looking one, the one who got the girls and scored in every sense. I knew I was different from that. I just wanted to be better than him at something. Use my brain. And I did. I sort of hated him, in the end, that he just wasn't that bright. And I shed no tears for him now. I haven't cried since Cheryl's Ma died, few months after I'd got back from Liverpool. And the man had been a fucking thorn in my side from the day I got here. I felt nothing.

But I headed back over to Chez, and took her out of Gilly's arms, and hugged her. And I told her, because I didn't want her hearing it from anyone else. And she just looked at me and said, "Oh no, no, no, no … ", and started crying again, so I held on to her, tight, while the village burned, because I knew that she needed me just to be there. And I felt for her. I really did. It hurt, to hear her cry like that. She was losing two of the people she'd let get closest to her in the world. People I knew she'd let herself love. And I can't put myself in that place, know what that must feel like, opening yourself up to that. All those people, crying and dying for love in the middle of the destruction. I found it hard to comprehend.

Apart from the boys, and Chez, family, blood, people who are as much a part of me as one of my own ribs … I don't really do love.


	15. Chapter 15

_I have been faffing about with this, wasn't sure how to split it, but this fic is getting near the end now, so I thought I'd just go for a big_ _update and move things along_. _Just two more after this. Thanks for the fantastic comments for the last chapter, really appreciated._

**Trouble**

**Part 15**

Ever have those days, where it feels like everything is unravelling? Like when you're a kid, bunking off school, and you snag your stupid jumper on some barbed wire that you know you never should have been trying to crawl through anyways, and there are all these ends sticking out, and if you pull at them, before you know it, you've got spaghetti in your hands. And once that happens, nothing holds together any more, no matter how much you try to put it back the way it was. And you know you'll be getting a smack when you get home, because there's no cash for a new one. Things just fall apart.

The day after the fire was like that. And the day after. And pretty much every day after that from there to here. And no matter how hard I pedalled, there didn't seem to be a damn thing I could do to stop everything sliding away from me.

I could have fetched him earlier, I guess, Stephen. I could have stopped it starting, the thing with Rae. But I left it til morning. I was kind of busy with getting Cheryl to hospital to get news of Mal, getting information on Amy and the kids, getting the club boarded up. He was safe, anyway, and I knew if I left it, he'd feel guilty as hell for going off with her while his kids and his missus nearly died. And I wanted him to feel that. Guilt, for going off with her the way he did, for going home with her, for going to bed with her when all it should have been was a fucking date, for being so fucking easy, leaving the people he was supposed to care about to fend for themselves. He'd be easier to handle that way, easier to prise away from her again. Everyone would be a winner. Except her, I guess, but I didn't think about her.

I had to be the one to break it to him. I was the only one who knew where he was, after all. So I grabbed an hour's kip first, cleaned up, and then went over to her flat. Shouldered in the door. I figured it was best to have the element of surprise, and I could always claim they hadn't heard me.

He was in bed with her. Naked as the day he was born, going in for another round, it looked like, his mouth all over her. Not a specially pretty picture. They looked up, shocked.

"This better be good," he said, his eyes wide. But not really questioning my right to walk in there.

So I let him know. That after he'd gone home with her, was shagging her, Amy, his Amy, had been stuck in a deathtrap, smoke choking her lungs, her eyes closing. That the kids – his kids – had been there too, crying for their Daddy. I told him they were in hospital. Chucked his clothes at him.

"I need you to get dressed," I said. "I'll take you there."

And I watched his expression change. Disbelief. Horror. Misery. Guilt. Oh yeah. Guilt.

So the afterglow didn't last long for them. I had him out of there in minutes. I turned my back and left the room for them to pull on some clothes, imagining his skinny body, covering up fast, clumsy, barely giving hers a glance. And then he was running round, to the bathroom and back, panicking. I took the chance to calm him down, keep him going, get him ready. Then we were out of there without a backward glance at her, leaving her with her mouth open.

"I'll come down later, yeah?" she called, after him.

He nodded vaguely, but I don't think he heard her.

He still seemed stunned, in the car. Talked less than I expected. Just kept saying he didn't understand. Over and over, he didn't understand, why they'd been there, why would a fire start, how did they get out? I told him what I knew. About Steph. And he went very quiet, then. Turned his face away. But he didn't cry. I guess he was in shock.

He went straight in to see her. And to tell the truth, she really didn't look great. Her face was a shade of grey, like the ashes in her lungs. A mask pressed over her mouth. Still unconscious. Some useless boyfriend of hers was sitting with her, and Stephen went off on one at him over what the doctors had been saying.

"It's not his fault you weren't here," I told him. "I'm sure they're doing everything they can."

But he wasn't listening. He just pushed the gormless boyfriend out of the way, and went to her.

"You don't need to come back," he said to him, coming over more assertive than I'd ever seen him, stroking her hair, "I'm gonna stay with her now." Fierce.

It always surprises me. How those two, him and Amy, they just keep clicking back together like Lego bricks. I don't know what it is. Love, I guess. Of a kind.

"She doesn't look too good, does she?" I said, when we'd been left alone with her.

"Do you even care?" he said, not looking round at me. He sounded angry. I guess it was the shock.

"Don't be like that, Stephen," I said to him.

"No," he said, and turned around, facing up to me. "This suits you, dunnit?" It was ridiculous. He sounded like … like fucking Eileen, or something.

"What's that supposed to mean?" And that's exactly the kind of answer I'd have given her. For fuck's sake, what was he doing to me?

"You threatened 'er! To keep her mouth shut about me and you!" He was shouting, now.

"Keep, your voice, down," I hissed at him.

But there was no shutting him up.

"I don't care who knows about us!"

"Yeah, well I do!" I said, raising my voice as well. And I don't raise my voice. I don't need to. But that shut him up, anyway. "Whatever you think of me, I wouldn't want Leah and Lucas to be without their Mum."

He looked down at her. Torn. Needing somewhere to put all his guilt, for not being there for her, for being off with someone else. And he was dumping it on me. Me. I turned away. I was suddenly sick of this, what he was doing to me.

"You know what?" I said. "Forget it." And I found my feet taking me out of the door, away from the fucking bleeping of the machines, and his fucking shouting. But his voice, I couldn't get away from his fucking voice.

"Oh, so you're just gonna walk away from it all, are ya?" Just like Eileen, when I went to Liverpool. And just like someone else, when I left Liverpool, and went home.

I turned and went back.

"What would you have me do, Stephen, huh?" I just didn't know what he wanted from me.

He looked at me, pain on his face, shaking his head. I felt at sea with him, suddenly, at odds. More than ever before. Like we were looking at the same thing, from opposite directions, and not even seeing the same damn thing. I'd never normally ask him what he wanted. But he didn't even get a chance to answer.

Even then, even when she was unconscious, she just couldn't resist sticking herself in between us. Amy, choking and coughing. Coming back from the dead. And he was right back with her, holding her, smiling, giving her everything.

"Amy, it's me, it's all alright. I'm here."

I watched them together. I fucking hated her, in that moment, more than I ever had. Because when she was there, she was all he could see. He held her hand.

"I'll go get a nurse," I said, and walked out. I'd seen enough.

Once she was in the hands of the medics, I got him out of there to let them work, took him down to the kids' ward. He could hardly refuse that. They were having some tests done, when we got there. I stayed with him, while he waited. He just sat there, quiet now, his hands between his legs, miserable, like his anger with me came and went, and he'd just had enough of being angry. It seemed like we were there for hours, though it probably wasn't. I felt restless, wandering around, not knowing what I could do for him. I'm not good with this stuff, the touchy feely stuff. This is what Chez is good at. But Chez had no thought for anyone but Malachy right then. I asked him if he wanted a coffee. No answer. I sighed, leaning against the wall. I remembered I'd had fuck all sleep. Suddenly, I felt like it.

"Kids are gonna be OK, Stephen," I said to him. "They're just checking them out, that's all."

He barely responded, lost in himself, like he couldn't hear me. But I felt edgy, up there in the kids' ward. There was a very particular reason I didn't want him there long. I looked around, twitchy. And finally, he looked up out of his misery.

"What's wrong?" he said, his voice thick. "You all right?" So he wasn't completely oblivious to me, then.

"What? Yeah. No … it's … hate hospitals." I laughed. He looked back at me, uncomprehending.

"How did it start?" he asked me, quiet.

"What?"

"The fire. How did it start?" It almost seemed like he couldn't look at me again now.

"I don't know."

And he just shook his head. "This can't be happening," he said. And finally, his face started to crumple.

I didn't really think about it, in the end. Just went straight over there and sat down beside him. "Hey, Stephen," I said to him, trying to look into his face, watching his misery take him over. "Look at me. Look at me." He turned his head towards me. "I'm gonna help you get through this, OK?" My hand was on his shoulder. He nodded, his mouth contorted. "And I don't want you coming into work. You take as long as you need." He nodded, again. All his resistance was gone.

"Thanks," he spluttered.

And then he just went. Sobbed. Started to let it all out, the tears running down his face. And it was strange, I wasn't prepared for the way my chest contracted under my ribs as he cried, making me pull him into me, feeling his head rest against me, cradling it in my hand. I wanted to put my mouth down on his hair, bury it there. I bent my head towards him, so close. But a doctor walked past, and I sat up, patted him on the shoulder instead. Nothing wrong with a hug, when a guy's in trouble. I gazed out of the window, while he cried into my chest. Sighed. I just wanted it to be over, really, to get him out of there. This wasn't really turning out the way I'd expected. I'd expected him to feel bad. But not this pain, messy, complicated, vulnerable, that felt like it had been building a lot longer than one night, and now someone had hit a release valve. Not this fear, confusion, grief for his kids that echoed in my chest like a long-forgotten voice on time delay, a memory of Eileen, holding on to my hands. But if it meant he leant on me to help him now, I could live with that.

When he was calmer, cried out, I left him for a bit. I swear, I was only gone a couple of minutes. I just went to get him something to eat, because he'd not touched a thing all day. I came back quick enough, past the Pulmonary ward that I already had a passing acquaintanceship with.

And when I walked back in through the doors, he wasn't alone anymore. It was exactly what I hadn't wanted to happen. Exactly why I'd been like a cat on hot bricks.

Stephen, sitting with his back to the door, hunched over. Someone else sitting close up behind, a hand on his shoulder, comforting him, the way that only I should have been comforting him. The closeness of it. The inappropriateness of it. I felt a flash of rage.

Macca.

* * *

><p>"Talk of the devil," Macca said, as I came in. "How's it goin' Brendan?" So he'd been talking about me, then. To Stephen. I just couldn't even …<p>

"Good," I said. "Yeah. You?"

He looked up at me. "I was just telling Ste I was on my way back to Ireland and I had a wee accident."

I looked at Stephen. His back was still turned. I don't think he was really taking any of it in. Thank Christ. I just needed to get him away from there.

"Hey, Stephen, don't know 'bout you, but I wanna get some fresh air, you wanna come?"

But I'd barely got the words out.

"Don't mind if I join yer, do you?" That voice he uses, Macca. Quiet. Passive. About as passive as a snake bite.

"No," I said, "not at all." I looked down into Macca's quizzical, guarded eyes, trying to work out what the hell he wanted. "Stephen, come on." He got up, obedient. "I got you this," I said, handing him a pack of sandwiches, the best they had in the place downstairs. He put out his hand for them. "Good lad," I said, and almost pushed him out the door as Macca got up to join us. I squared up to him, just giving him a reminder that I was a hell of a lot taller than he was. Stronger. He never flinched, just gazed up at me, impassive. And I pushed him out as well. Not much I could do about it now.

It was one of those moments, outside, that I never wanna live through again. Like when Eileen found my phone. The messages from Macca on it. It always seem to come down to him, he always brought trouble on his shoulder. I honestly wished I'd never met him, never taken up with him. Everything, Eileen, this mess, the hospital, in that moment, it all seemed to come down to him.

They sat alongside each other on a low wall outside, while I stood away, leaning against the building, awkward. I couldn't stand to look at them together, though I hardly needed to. I knew what was behind me. Macca in that crappy dressing gown, looking at me, every word pointed with an extra meaning, like he wanted to stick it between my ribs. Stephen, in his own world, completely unaware.

"Brendan's been to see me a couple of times in hospital, haven't ye?" Macca started on me, as Stephen finished his sandwiches, quiet. "He's a good mate." He almost spat the last word.

That seemed to wake Stephen up. "You never mentioned anything," he said, his voice puzzled.

"Must have slipped my mind," I said to him. Because Macca was easy to forget, when I wasn't there. They belonged in two different worlds, those two. Two different universes, preferably. Time dimensions.

He turned to Macca. "And what happened to yer?"

There was a pause. Not much of one. "I … er … fell down the stairs." Christ, he could at least have thought of something original.

I glanced round at him, caught his expression. Looked away again, across the car park, paramedics coming and going, cars.

"Might wanna watch where you're going next time, Macca," I said to him.

"Brendan!" It was Stephen's voice. I realised I'd barely bothered to hide my dislike.

"Just saying."

"No, he's right," Macca said. He sounded like some bitter ex. Like he could barely contain his glee at his chance to vent it. "It was my own fault." There was an emphasis on the words. Those words. I'd used them to him, yeah, in the past. The fairly recent past, and before. _It was your own fault. You brought that on yourself. You deserved that._ I knew those words, pretty well.

"Look," he said, getting up, maybe finally wondering if he'd pushed me too far for one day, "I'd better leave you to it." He turned to Stephen. "Hope everything's all right with your kids."

"Cheers," Stephen said, distracted, his mind back on them again, thank god. "Thank you," he said, and Macca headed off, casting a last glance at me. And for the life of me and my children, I could not read that expression. If I hadn't known better, I'd have thought it was a come on.

"Catch ye later, yeah?" I said to him, making with the friendly before he disappeared. But he didn't say anything. His head dropped. And he shuffled off, slowly, his hand pressed to his side.

I turned to Stephen. "What did he say to ye?" I asked him. I needed to know how much he'd blabbed.

But Stephen just looked at me, puzzled. "He told me to ask you. What's goin' on?"

Good question. I'm not sure I knew.

"Nothing," I said. And I was rescued by his girl turning up. Saved by the belle. "Here she is." I can't say I was happy to see her, but it was better than Macca.

So I had to stand there while they did the kiss and hug thing, and he told her the kids were fine. And they went off inside again. Together. He didn't even look back.

It was a long day, that one. I couldn't believe what fate was throwing at my head, all these things that I prefer to keep separate, colliding. He wasn't even supposed to be there, in that hospital, Stephen. But he was. I still thought I was holding it together, though. Him. And all the people that seemed to want to get between me and him, Amy, Macca. Plus Cheryl, who was still waiting for news outside Mal's room. He might make it, they thought now. Maybe. He was hanging there between two worlds and couldn't even make up his mind which way to jump.

I sat outside the kids' ward with Stephen's blonde girl, Rae, while he was in there with them. Time dragged even more, without him there. And it was weird, her wanting to be there with him. Christ, they'd only spent one night. And she was acting like his fiancée.

"I don't want Stephen going back to the flat on his own," I said, to prepare her.

"He won't," she said. She was just very calm, and quiet. It bugged me.

"If you don't mind, he can stay with me for a couple of days," I said to her. Because I had every intention of taking him home with me. He could stay in the spare room. And he'd need me. I imagined how grateful he'd be, when he was calmer. Happier. I couldn't remember the last time I'd seen him smiling. Hotel, I guess. Drops of water still on his eyelashes, his hair damp and rumpled, a bit of end of the day stubble on his face, his face and body flushed. And smiling. A flash of his teeth, that disappeared just a little too fast.

"It's fine, I'll stay with him," she said, just the same as before. As if it was obvious, as if it was her right. Unperturbed.

I laughed. "No offence, love, but a time like this, I think he needs his mates. Yeah?"

But he came out through the doors before I could get any further. He looked crushed. Exhausted.

"Hey," I said, getting up, putting a hand on his shoulder, "you OK?"

He seemed to nod, his mind somewhere else.

"Listen," I said, "you can kip at ours, just til you get back on your feet."

He looked at me for a second, but he was hard to read behind those eyelashes, behind that tired expression. He hesitated, awkward. "Thanks for the offer," he said. Then he turned to her. Reached out a hand, just a little. "I was hoping you'd come back with me," he said.

"Of course." She was all smiles. It set my teeth on edge. It stabbed at me, those smiles between them. Him, turning me down. I didn't get it. I couldn't really believe he was going through with that, her, as if it was for real. But there was nothing I could do about it, right then. I slapped on the mask, again.

"Well … you take care of him, yeah?" I said to her, swallowing it down.

"Yeah," she said, "I will." And linked her arm in his, all public show of affection, and led him away, his eyes taking a last look back through the window at his kids. Never at me. Not for a second.

"See ye," I said. But I don't think he heard me.

I know I probably should have gone home, right there. Or gone to find Chez. If Stephen had come back with me, I'd have been out of there and never looked back. But I was left standing alone while he went off with his Rae, and it riled me. Plus, it gave me an opportunity I couldn't turn down. I decided to pay a little visit of my own to see Amy. See how much she remembered. See if I could at least get her out of my way. For good, this time.

She was still in a pretty rough way, when I walked into her room, quiet. She was pale, like a little ghost. Sleeping restlessly. Coughing. Choking. I know because I watched her for a while. It was hard to believe someone so small, and pale, had caused me so much trouble.

When she woke up and saw me, reading through her notes, she looked terrified, from the off.

"What are you doing here?" she asked me, trying to sit herself up, her eyes wide.

"I should have brought you flowers," I said. "It was very rude of me."

"Just go away," she said, her voice shaking.

But I wasn't done. I actually quite liked talking to Amy Barnes. It wasn't like boxing exactly, she was too pathetic for that. But it was sort of like fencing. Seeing who could take a hit. And she'd dealt me a few. So now, it was my turn.

I told her she'd had us all worried there for a while. Even me.

"You don't scare me anymore," she said. "I've got bigger things to worry about." But I had a feeling I did. Scare her, I mean. For her kids, if not for herself.

"Good," I said. "Good. You won't be running round spreading gossip about other people then, will ye?"

She looked back at me. Her eyes narrowed, as if she was trying to make me out. What kind of man I was.

"Gossip tends not to be true," she said. "I know you and Ste are together, and I know you've been hurting him." She turned her hands up, waiting for me to deny it.

I went to stand alongside the bed, looked down at her. "That's interesting."

So this was still about him, then, and what she thought I'd done to him. No mention of the fire. The message. But I had a feeling. I had this feeling, from the moment she opened her eyes and saw me, that she was pretty sure it was me who'd nearly finished her off. And I could use that to my advantage. All she needed was for me to be the thing she feared I was, and I could be rid. She thought I was the Big Bad? I could be the Big Bad. I bent over her. Dropped in a few words about her kids. Her darling little babies. How it made me feel sick, thinking about what could have happened to them. It worked.

"We're going away," she said, shrinking away from me. "To be a family."

I hadn't expected that. For a second, I felt winded. I just wanted her to shut up. But going away worked. And she could try to take the kids as well, if she wanted. As long as he stayed. I'd make sure he saw them. Got full access, custody maybe. She couldn't win, with her history, from what I'd heard.

"You won't be able to touch us there," she said.

And I pushed my face into hers. "Touch ye? Touch ye? What do you think I am, Amy?" Because suddenly, I was sick of the play acting. Being this person, that everyone thought I was.

Her finger was on the panic button. "I know exactly what you are," she said.

Because everyone always does, don't they? I'm the fucking devil incarnate.

"Yeah," I said. And I told her it was good, that she went. That she should keep her kiddies close. And she looked puzzled. "Next time you might not be so lucky," I told her.

And then suddenly, all of it, her fear for her life, my threats, they seemed like a bad joke. I heard myself laugh. And I left her to puzzle it out.

I walked out of that hospital almost buzzing. I don't even know why. On the whole, I'd say the day had gone to crap. But seeing that fear on her face, knowing I put it there, knowing what she thought I was capable of, knowing she was nearly gone, the only one who knew … yeah, that gave me a shot of adrenalin. I almost ran down the steps of that hospital, letting the air hit my face.

And that's when I saw him again. Macca, just sitting on a bench, still in his crappy dressing gown, nurses coming and going, past him. He looked completely lost in thought. But I wondered if somewhere in his deluded head, he was waiting for me.

"You just don't get the message, do yer?" I said, stopping beside the bench.

He looked up at me. "I got the message all right. I also got a punctured lung and three cracked ribs."

He always was a sarcastic wee fuck.

"Well as soon as you've finished here, you disappear," I said to him. "Or I'm gonna finish the job. OK?"

And I was on my way. But he stopped me with a name.

"You know, me and Ste are quite similar," he said. "You obviously go for the same type of fella."

For a moment, I just stood there. I listened to my breathing, going in and out. The way he talked about me. He always had done that. Like I was like him. Like Stephen was. As if either of us was anything like him. Bile filled my mouth.

I went back, feeling anger and disgust take me over. Bent down. Pushed my forehead against his, pressing him back, feeling him cringe.

"I ain't queer," I said.

"Tell that to your new boyfriend," he shot back, eye to eye, his voice full of feeling that I couldn't fathom.

And I was done. Christ, what is it with that word? Was everyone fucking obsessed? Did everyone think they knew me now? Did every fucker want to slap this label on me, queer, nancy, faggot, just because I had sex with a guy a couple of times? It was fucking insane.

_Bren … mate … are you …?_

I didn't give a toss, now, about his ribs, or his lung, or him really, any part of him. I grabbed him by that poxy dressing gown and rammed him up against the hospital wall. And now, now he looked scared. His breathing was fast and rough, his eyes wide.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," he said.

Was he … was he threatening me? Christ, what kind of day was this?

"Yeah," I said, still gripping him, "why's that?"

"I'll get you done for GBH." His voice came in gasps. "I told the police I couldn't remember what happened. But a punch in the face might just jog my memory."

I felt lost. I honestly felt like I needed someone to give me a fucking map, here. There had to be something he wanted, that would get rid of him. I just didn't get what this was about, what he hoped to gain. It was almost like he wanted me to be angry with him.

"Whaddya want?" I asked him.

And he hesitated. His face softened.

"I want you back," he said.

I pulled back. I couldn't believe I'd just heard him say it. Was he insane now? What the fuck did he think was between us?

"What?"

"Dump Ste, and get back with me."

I let him go. Suddenly, I didn't want to touch him. Not ever. Not even in anger.

"If you don't," he said, swallowing, catching his breath, "I'll go to the police."

And for once, I had nothing to say. Nothing. What kind of person demands something like that with a gun to your head? Who forces someone to be with them? Care about them? He was sick. If that shit happens, it just happens. Usually when you least want it to. I'd always thought he was a sensible guy. But he was batshit mental, I could see that now. He must love the pain, I realised. He was in love with it. He'd fallen in love with the pain because he knew it was all he'd get from me. All I could give him. And I never meant that, never meant it that way. I didn't get any pleasure out of hurting him. It just served its purpose.

I turned around and got out of there, fast, not looking back. Picked up the car and drove back to the flat, my palms sweating, his words going round in my head until it throbbed. When I got there, I was desperate for some kip but a shower seemed more important, I needed to wash it all out of me, Macca, and all the interference and the crazy radio waves that seemed to be messing everything up between us, me and Stephen. I would wipe it away. I would. I would sort it, because I always do, and he'd be back with me, the way it was before, when it was just me and him, and the world had nothing to do with it. I would sort it tomorrow. I fell into bed, shut out all thoughts of anyone else, and slept like the dead.

And the next morning, before I'd even had a chance to get my head together, someone was hammering on the door. He'd come back.

Stephen.

But not how I expected. Hoped. He stormed in. Pushing me out of the way with a shove to the chest.

"Oi, what's goin' on?" I asked him.

And these words started to pour out of his mouth. His angry, angry mouth. "You turn up looking all concerned! Offering me a shoulder to cry on! You pretended to be me mate!"

"Wha …?" I started.

But he launched himself at me, shoving me away.

"Pretended to care for me!"

Pretended? I had no clue what was going on. Not one. Who could have said something? Amy? Macca? The fucking Queen of Sheba? I just needed him to stop with the hysterics and shut up for a moment.

I held a finger up to his face. "Calm down, Stephen." My jaw was set. I don't do scenes like that. Messy. Angry. I just don't. But he wouldn't shut up.

"No!" he said, his voice high, his breath coming in gulps, his hands held out, "Why have I been so stupid?" Then he looked into my face. "It was you! You did all this, didn't yer!"

"What are you talkin' about?" I was trying to do some mental calculations. Did what? Put Macca there?

"You threatened Amy, because she found out about _us_!" His eyes were wide. His voice was hostile. Like he hated me. So he knew, then. About me meeting her again after he warned me off, about the message. For a moment, I was stuck for words. Like someone had taken my breath away. Like when you're punched. But then he spoke again.

"Is that why you torched the place?"

Right. So. This was … this was nuts, right? He thought … he actually thought I'd tried to kill them. He did. I could see why she might. But him? In the hospital, I'd thought he was just mouthing off, shock, guilt, whatever. He knew me better than that, surely. He was insane. The whole thing had driven him off his head.

I think I laughed. Stepped back. I felt something like relief. Because now at least I could flat deny it. And I'd be telling him the truth. But I was also shocked, in a way. Why would I want to do that, to someone I … to someone I cared about? Because I did. I did care about him. It almost hurt.

"Wow," I said. "Yeah, there's some serious accusations, Stephen."

But he just exploded with frustration, rubbing his hands over his face. "She left me a voicemail, warning me! … Saying that you were going after her!" He was still forcing the words out, pained. Maybe this hurt him, too.

"Did she?" So she'd rung him then, after our little meeting in the alley. He must have just found it. Christ, she really couldn't keep it shut, could she? But I did some rapid calculations. He'd said nothing about the other message, the one I never should have left if he hadn't made me angry. I just had to hope she'd never picked it up. Maybe she didn't. Maybe her phone got fried in the fire. Because if she still had it, I was fucked. This wouldn't just be Stephen, yelling at me, shouting it all out, his pain and his guilt and his confusion. It'd be the cops. For something I hadn't even done. And there was no fucking way I was letting that happen.

"I've 'eard it." He looked at me, almost pleading now. "You did it, didn't yer?" His voice was suddenly quiet. His face was close. So he really did think that, then, about me. Had been thinking it all day, turning it over. No wonder he hadn't come home with me.

But I knew what he needed, now. He needed to know. He needed to hear from me that I didn't do it. That he was wrong. That I'd never do that to him. That he was special. That it was all alright.

"I need you to stop talkin', right now," I said, lowering my voice, tapping on his chest. Like with a horse, spooked. You just have to calm them down.

He looked like he wanted to cry again. But he held it back. "You're not gonna get away with it," he said, trying to sound like the big man.

"No?"

"No," he said, starting to gabble again. "I bet you've left a trail behind, han't yer, I'll take the voicemail to the police, I'll prove that you had a motive …"

It was bullshit, coming pouring out. He sounded like he'd been watching too many crappy detective shows. It was nothing to do with the reality of him and me.

"Stephen." I just said it, and he was quiet.

I looked at him, face to face. And I just laughed. Tense. I just needed him to shut up. I always need him to shut up, always. I put my hands on his shoulders. Felt how bony they were. How fragile.

"Stephen …" and I felt him come under my spell. "Ask yourself why," I said to him. "Why would I do that to you?" And he looked back at me, so beautiful, and so confused, and so easily hurt, and wanting to be back with me, I just knew it.

He struggled to get his thoughts together. "Because … the message …" he tailed off, then burst out again. "Because she knew about us, that's why!"

And I had to give him something.

"Amy stepped out of line," I told him. "She needed a fright. But to burn down the building? With your kids inside? Are you _serious_?"

I watched his eyes lower, as he took this in.

"I would never hurt Leah and Lucas," I said, touching his chest. "On my life. Who do you think I am?" His head shook slightly, as if he just didn't know what to believe. "Do you even know me at all?" I asked him. And I really wondered. In that moment, I really wondered what kind of man he thought I was. I don't usually care. But I thought about it, right then.

"The message …" he started, again, but with no conviction.

"She panicked," I told him, knowing he was coming back. "She let her imagination run away with her." I took hold of him, took his face between my hands. He didn't resist. "Look at me," I said, looking into his eyes, "I am not a killer, Stephen." And it was true. I wasn't completely damned. Not yet. And I needed him to believe me. "You know that."

There was no answer. His mouth still puckered, unhappy, confused.

"Tell me you know that." Because I needed him to know me, just in that moment, for what I was. I needed to see it in his eyes. I needed him to see me, like he had before. Not the Big Bad, not what everyone else saw. Me.

He said nothing. But I knew that he wanted to believe it. That was good enough. It had to be.

I let out a breath. Pulled his forehead towards mine, resting it there, my hands on his neck. He was just … he was in there. He was in my head. And I needed to feel him, after the day we'd both had, needed him to know, somehow, that he was in there, the way I knew I was in his.

Eventually, I pulled back, keeping a hand on his shoulder.

"You need to be strong for your kids," I told him, placing two fingers in the centre of his chest. "You need to be strong for Amy." It's what you have to hear, what you have to learn, when you grow up into a man.

His face crumbled again, under the weight of it. The burden of it. The responsibility.

"Hey," I said, touching his face, "I understand why you got upset, I do."

"I'm sorry." He almost sobbed it. He sounded … broken. Life can do that to you.

"It's OK," I said, trying to cheer him up, "Hey, it's OK." And he looked back at me, taking some comfort from it, I could see that. "But you need to go to Rae, and you need to set her mind at ease, cos I'm assuming that you went there before you came here, and that's OK," he wiped his nose on his sleeve, like a kid, and I laughed, "… and that's OK. We don't want her stirring up any stuff about us, do we?"

Because it was clean-up time, again. Always, when it got messy, I'd have to clean up.

He shook his head. So much quieter now. "I'll speak to her," he said.

I smiled. But somehow, it still hurt to look at him, knowing there was always all this stuff between us. It was like trying to reach for someone on the other side of a bridge.

"Yeah," I said to him. And my hand came up and brushed some hair off his forehead. "Yeah, I know you will."

Because it was him and me again, now.

"C'mere," I said to him, and put my hand on the back of his neck, and pulled him into me, resting his head on my shoulder. And I understood the mess going on in there, I did. The people he cared about had been hurt, I got that. I knew that if anyone so much as threatened to harm a hair on his head, I wouldn't be thinking too straight, either.

But then I had to send him away, to sort it. I had to wipe the streaks from his face with my thumbs, watch him sniff and nod, brave, and send him back out there, watch him slip away down the steps, giving me one look back over his shoulder.

I wanted to kiss him, make him know what it meant, that I was there to take care of him. I wanted to keep him there with me, safe. I wanted to take him to bed, and for him to lie beside me, like before, when he looked at me like I was everything, the moon and the stars, and then afterwards, we'd sort it all out. But I didn't. Maybe one day, soon. But right then, there was just too much still in the way.

I had to open the door, let him go, and send him back to Rae.


	16. Chapter 16

****_Penultimate part! Another biggish one, so hope you can wade through it. I had to stitch this back together from the material after the fire, which was so dodgily edited together, but I hope it makes sense._

**Trouble**

**Part 16**

It was weird in that flat ,after I'd sent Stephen away, no Chez rattling around. Empty. Usually, I don't mind the quiet, to be left to myself, no nagging, no demands, no pressure. It makes a change – for about ten minutes anyway. But this was just too quiet. She'd not been home for over twenty-four hours. Was refusing to leave Malachy's side, stubborn as a mule, kipping in the hospital, trying to support that no-good wife of his. Suddenly turned into Mother Theresa, apparently, had Mercedes. Bit late really, for Mal, but better late than never, I guess. I don't know how much good that is, to realise you love someone when one of you's half way to the cemetery. Life's short. Shame she didn't think of that when she was making his life hell, but I guess people don't.

Lynsey would be keeping an eye out for Cheryl, I knew, but I thought it was time I went to find my sister. And there were some things I needed to sort out at the hospital. Stuff I couldn't put off, however much I would have if I could. So when I'd got my head together, I headed back over there, found my way to the ICU.

She was still there, just waiting, quiet, outside Malachy's room. I knew from the second I saw her that it was pretty much all over. She was keeping vigil, like the women do when they bring the coffins home. It was hard to know what to say to her, truly. She looked terrible, no make-up, face drawn. So small, suddenly, my big bold sis. Her face was turned away, towards his room, like everything was in suspension for her. I knew she thought she'd loved him. Had loved him, probably. Definitely, I guess. Still did, most likely. Remembered the night she came round and cried on my shoulder and got drunk, after they split. Fell asleep on the sofa. She has a big heart, my sister. Gives it away easy. Too easy. Gets hurt, bad. Gets rejected, time and again. Then picks herself up, carries on, and does it all over again. Sometimes I find it hard to believe we're related.

She didn't hear me come in, right off. I stood and watched her, her face turned away. For a second, I wondered if she'd wait outside the door if that was me in there. If she still would, even if she really knew me, the stuff I keep hidden. If there would be anyone else waiting there with her. Morbid crap. I snapped out of it.

"Hey," I said, as she looked up.

And she just got up and let me fold her in my arms. It was good to be able to do it. I couldn't do much for her, but I could do that.

"Oh … I can't do this," she said, distraught, pale, her eyes red, sitting down again, like her legs felt weak. I put my arm around her.

"Course you can," I said. "You're a tough old bird." I needed her to be. I needed her to be tough, what she'd always been, just like she needed me to be what I'd always been.

"Less of the old, hm?" she said, trying to laugh, but failing. "And you know it's all front." Yeah, I knew all about that.

Suddenly she took a deep intake of breath, asked about the club. I told her I was looking after everything. I just wanted her to be OK.

"What would I do without you?" she asked, looking at me, the way only really she does. I laughed. "Steph's dead," she said, simply, as I squeezed her shoulder. "I haven't even had time to grieve for her, what with Mal being in such a state. I'm walking around trying to be positive, you know? All I wanna do is scream."

I looked at her. "You're with me, now. Go for it."

And for a second, her face crumpled. But she looked up at the ceiling instead. Seemed to be fighting to control it.

"If I do, I doubt I'll stop," she said, her voice shaking. She was trying so hard to hold it together. "I can't get my head around it … for her to go through everything she did and then to die like that …"

Yeah. Life sucks. We go through a load of crap. And then just when we think we might be happy, we die. And you don't normally get a choice when you go - but she had. She'd chosen to go in there, that girl. She must have known that death was on her shoulder. Brave.

"You know her better than anyone," I said to her. "What would she prefer? To fade away, or die like a hero?" It was a cliché, I know. Dying a hero. I should have been ashamed. But it was what Chez needed to hear.

And she smiled. "She always wanted to be a star," she said.

"Well then, she got her wish," I said.

And she laughed. Actually laughed. "Fame at last," she said.

"Yeah." I wondered, again, if she'd remember me like that. If I'd still be a hero, in her eyes, when I went, like I was when I was fourteen. Like I was, still, right then.

She suddenly took a huge gulpy breath. "She was such a good mate, you know. We could tell each other anything." Then she started to cry again. "I don't know what I'm gonna do without her, Bren."

"Hey," I said, "you still got me. Lynsey. Mal." The Belfast gang, back together. For a little while, anyway.

She looked away again, through the window of the ward.

"Mal's really ill, you know." Funny how people use these really simple words when someone's gonna die. They almost take your breath away. I felt like an idiot.

"Yeah," I said. "Sorry. Not really good at this, am I?"

But she took me as I was. "I know," was all she said. And I pulled her down onto my shoulder for a hug. And she held onto me. I swear what heart I have broke for her, right there, it did.

But she wasn't the only reason I was there. There was someone else I needed to see. Unfinished business. When the docs came out of Mal's room, said he might be ready to see her soon, I left her. Gave her a kiss and told her I'd come back for her later. I guess we both knew he might not last that long.

I knew the way to Macca's ward, well enough. It was true, what he'd said to Stephen. I hadn't just left him there. I'd gone a couple of times, to check on him. I don't know why. For old time's sake, I guess. At first I'd hoped I'd be able to put him straight on the next flight, soon as they gave him the all clear. But there were complications. He'd punctured a lung. They wouldn't discharge him. So I took him his bag of stuff, the bag he'd landed with. Paid for the room. A private room. And a couple of times, yes, I went there. I think I told him we could be mates, as long as he cleared out. That I was better to have as a friend than an enemy. Anything that might pacify him, smooth things over, make it easier for him to walk away. And he'd just looked back at me, with the weirdest expression. I'd sat there, my knee tapping, dying to get out of there, every time. Knowing I had other things to get back for. Other people. One other person.

So yeah, I knew my way. He was sleeping, when I got there. I sat and watched him.

I found myself wondering why it was always the wrong people who seemed to be dead, or dying. Not so much the Mals, I'm not that much of a hypocrite. But the Stephs. Young guys, doing no harm, except to be unlucky. Kids. Mums of kids. Lovers. All lost. To cancer. Car accidents. Missed. Loved. It was fucking cruel. Wondered why it was never the people who were in my way. Wondered if I'd ever have the courage to do it, take a life, if I had to, to protect what was mine.

He was restless, Macca, his breathing uneven. I couldn't help but think of the way Stephen slept. Sound. Like he'd found something he was looking for. His arm, thrown across my body, light and relaxed. I'd never let Macca hold onto me like that. Never let him curl his hand round mine without pulling it away. Never put my mouth down onto his hair, and just inhaled. He was just … he was just Macca. I'd liked him. I'd liked him a lot. But he wasn't … he seemed like he belonged to a lifetime ago.

He lay there on his back, a body. An invitation, wanting me back. It would be a fuck of a lot easier, in a way, to pick up with Macca again. Give him what he wanted, keep him quiet, get him a flat somewhere, a shag whenever I felt like it.

Then he was awake, levering himself up, awkward. He looked at me with that expression on his face again. Hate, really, that he'd mistaken for something else. Unnerving. And something else. Maybe … guilt? Like he'd done something he shouldn't and he thought I might have found out. I wondered what the hell he could have done to be guilty about, stuck in here.

And the thing was … he just wasn't the one I wanted.

I told him he was going home. I was abrupt, harsh. There didn't seem much point in fannying about. If he stayed, things would only get worse, messier, more complicated. And I couldn't have him around Stephen, not with him in the state he was, nervous, jittery.

He said he hadn't been discharged, but I told him I was doing it for him, and threw a bunch of money onto the bed. I started to pack his stuff, shoving it into a carrier.

"Brendan, c'mon, I've got nothing to go back fer!" he protested.

"You got nothing to stay for, either," I said, just to make sure he got the message. The very idea of him coming anywhere near me, or Stephen, made my skin crawl. There was just way too much Stephen might learn from him. "I want you as far away from here as humanly possible, do you understand?"

But then Cheryl burst in. Calling out his name, kissing him, sitting down on the bed, her hand over his, reproaching me for not telling her before. I didn't know how the hell she'd found out, but it was Lynsey, apparently. Saw Macca in the hospital. I had to make like I was surprised too, that he was here. That I'd only just found out. That I hadn't wanted to worry her any more than she already was.

"What have they done to ye? Huh?" She asked him, all sympathy, as he looked up at me.

"I got mugged," he said, looking back at her. "They must have needed the cash."

He wasn't even bothering to keep his story straight. He really barely seemed to care if it sounded believable. But she was rattling on again about how it had happened to her. It didn't seem to occur to her that she'd heard this story once too often now. She's an unsuspecting type, is my sister. Praise the Lord.

And then she did something I just didn't see coming.

"Come and stay with us, love," she said.

My stomach clenched. It didn't matter that I tried to tell her I was taking him to the airport. She wouldn't have it. He looked a bit peeky, she said, and she needed the cheering up. He smiled. And there was nothing I could say. When Chez makes up her mind to something, the four horsemen of the Apocalypse won't derail her. I wanted him on the other side of the world, and that still wouldn't be far enough. Instead, he was going to be installed in my house. And all I could do was laugh.

She was still refusing to come home. Promised to be back that night, but she wanted some more time with Mal on her own. He'd asked for her, apparently. Seems like he had a lot he wanted to say to her, while he had the chance. Somehow, I doubted he'd be sending his love to me.

So there was something insane about it, being left alone with Macca while he got ready to come back with me. I told him I'd leave him to get dressed.

"Don't leave on my account," he said. "Nothing you haven't already seen, eh Brendan?" That strange, provoking smile on his face. He looked like he was enjoying it. I threw his bag down on the bed and told him I'd be back for him in fifteen. Then I had to stand there while he discharged himself, laughing with the nurses, telling them what a mate I was, how I was taking him home to recuperate, how I'd take good care of him. The sly looks he was casting me seemed designed to make them think I was more than that. I don't know, maybe he actually wanted me to kill him.

And then I was stuck with him, driving him back to the flat. I didn't even get a chance to find out about Amy, whether she was still leaving. And I didn't see Stephen again that day. No contact. No clue what he was thinking, feeling. What he was doing. For all I knew she'd have persuaded him to pack up and leave with her, Amy. I felt like I was battling her for him. But I was pretty sure I was winning. She couldn't give him what I could. And if that phone had been destroyed, she didn't know anything about me that he didn't know himself.

But there was one person who did, and might. The person who was in my kitchen the next morning when I came out of my room. Drinking my coffee. Reading my paper. Eating my toast. Déjà vu, right? He had his feet well and truly back under the Brady table. And Chez had gone back to the hospital again, early, so it looked like it was just him and me. Perfect.

I sighed. Walked over. Leaned over his shoulder. I remembered he'd used to like that, though, feeling my breath on his neck. Too late.

"And here's me thinking you'd be gone by now."

"I'm waiting for a change in the weather," he said, sarky as hell. He seemed to be feeling better, then.

"Oh yeah?" I said. "I hear the forecast for Strandford Loch's quite good."

He looked up at me. Waved his toast, dismissively. Played dumb. "Why would I wanna go there?"

I put my hands down on the table top. Put my face into his. Stayed calm, this time. In control. "Cos that's where you'll end up if you don't get outta here." I was really just hoping I could piss him off so much he'd sod off. I didn't care if he hated me. From him, hate was fine. There's very few people I care what they think.

But he really didn't seem to scare easy these days. "That's no way to speak to a guest of your little sister's."

Always that, holding that over me, Chez, Chez, Chez, like she didn't have enough of her own going on right then. I told him to go home. And he threatened me with the cops again. He was starting to sound like a stuck record. And I called his bluff.

"If you were gonna do that," I said, helping myself to a piece of his toast, "you'd have done it by now." I fixed my eyes on his, close.

And he looked away. So I knew I was right. He was no threat. Not in that way, anyway, not the way Amy had been. I'd never believed it. I knew he wanted me too much.

He went out later, anyway. Needed some fresh air, he said, was heading for the SU for a drink. An invitation in his face, as he told me, pulling on his jacket. I can't say I was bothered. He could have all the fresh air and cheap beers he wanted when he got back to Belfast, as far as I was concerned.

"Have fun," I said, deadpan, and turned my back. Heard a pause. And then the door go.

Maybe I should have kept him company, just to keep tabs on him, make sure he didn't stir it up any more than he already had. But it was good I hadn't, as it turned out.

Because not much later, there was a knock at the door. And I wasn't really expecting to see him, to be honest, because I thought he might be back at the hospital, but it was Stephen. I felt a buzz of expectation at the sight of him, his face, those high cheekbones, the hair across his brow. His mouth, full as hell. I hadn't had him since the hotel, three days ago. I was hungry for him, suddenly, my balls buzzing with the closeness of him. But I kept it light, checking around to see if anyone was spying. Macca, mainly.

"All right, mate?" The coast was clear. "Come on in." The flat was empty, after all, and it seemed too good a chance to miss. It was time to remind him what this was all about, why it was worth it. He didn't look too happy, his face serious, but that was understandable. I had a strong sense that I could put a smile back on his face.

"No thanks," he said, his breathing coming heavy. "This won't take long."

His tone was like a cold shower. I turned back to him.

"Wow," I said. "That sounds a bit ominous."

And right off, he set his face against me. "I'm warning you," he said, his voice dark with feeling, "stay _away_ from me and Rae."

Him and … him and Rae? Since when had there been a him and Rae? She wasn't part of this story. She was never meant to be part of it.

"What?" My brain felt momentarily numb. I did some mental calculations. The only thing I could think was that he'd been in to see Amy. That she'd told him about my little hospital visit. That she'd told him she was leaving, to get away from me. Who knew, with a bit of luck, she was already on the way to … wherever the hell it was she was going. That might make him angry. Where the fuck Rae came into that I had no idea. Surely he could think about more than getting his rocks off at a time like this.

"You must have heard by now," he said, starting to raise his voice again. "It's official. The fire was started deliberately."

Right. I had heard that, yeah. It was all around the village by the time I'd got Macca back from the hospital the day before. I'd gone down to the pub to escape from him, and to get the latest. Turns out it wasn't a dodgy oven, after all. Turns out someone lit a match and set the place alight. Caused a whole heap of trouble, probably more than they meant, let the darkness inside consume them. And for once, it wasn't me. I don't know why everyone seemed to think it was. I'll admit, my first thought was insurance. It seemed obvious. I was expecting to hear any day that Tony Hutchinson had been carted away, though torching your own flat with the babysitter inside seemed a bit extreme. But for some reason, it suited Stephen to think it was me. I honestly don't know what he was expecting, what he came for, coming round there to accuse me again, shout the odds. For me to break down in tears and beg his forgiveness? He'd have loved that, I bet, for me to beg for him. I felt a dull anger against him. A sense of disappointment. I'd thought we'd got past this, that he knew me better than that now.

"Oh," I said, "yeah. And I did it. Grow up." And I turned away, to shut him out until he'd got a hold of himself.

But he wasn't having it. Lunged at me.

"I've got it on a voicemail!" he yelled.

"Voicemail, what voicemail?" For a second, I was all ears pricked again. Did he mean that fucking message, the one I'd damn near cursed myself for sending?

"You called Amy, and you scared her. Yeah, you scared her, and she left me a message!"

I let my breath out through my lips. This was nothing, same old same old, it was just someone putting the wind up him again, Amy probably, or Macca. I'd find out, later.

"That means nothing."

That made him completely lose it.

"You set fire to Gnosh, knowing she was in that flat!" He was screaming at me. It was like he wanted it to be me, so he could hate me. I had to shut him up.

I grabbed him by the jacket, balling it in my fists, and pinned him up against the wall, feeling the impact of his back hitting it. He let out a guttural sound. But his teeth were clenched with determination.

"Give me that phone," I said to him.

And then he laughed in my face, almost hysterical. "You think I'm really stupid enough to carry it on me?"

We were both breathing heavily. This was a fuck of a long way from what I'd wanted when I'd seen his face at my door. He looked upset. _He_ did. But it was me being accused of trying to kill his kids. That's what he thought of me.

I let go of him. Took a deep breath, and let it out. Smoothed down his jacket.

"I didn't start the fire, Stephen," I said, to his face, so completely deluded, so faithless.

But he didn't believe me.

"You just leave us alone," he said. It was almost a whisper. And he pushed his way past me, with a long glance. And left.

I put a hand to my forehead. I was sweating. I didn't expect it. I listened to the sound of his steps, retreating.

Us. Leave us alone. Him and Rae. So, what, they were a couple now? An item? After three days, they'd decided to make a go of it? After everything I'd done for him? I had no fucking clue what he'd even told her about me, or about where any of this had come from, and I didn't … this time, I didn't have a clue what I could do about it, to get him back.

* * *

><p>About the only good thing back then was having Chez back at the flat, where she should be, warm, normal, noisy, even when she was quiet – and she was quiet, for her. If nothing else she put a buffer between me and Macca, because there was no sign of him giving the RyanAir cattletruck his business yet, and with Stephen off playing doctors and nurses with Rae, I just needed someone there who wasn't on my case. Someone I could have a conversation with who wasn't ripping into me.<p>

She'd finally decided to take some time away from the hospital, catch up at home, as there was no change, and she was there the next morning, giving me updates on Mal over breakfast, not that there were any, talking about Steph's family, wandering around doing things with washing while I'm reading the paper, and it felt good. Reassuring. We'd always been there for each other, except those years when I was away, or she was. She seemed OK, in the circumstances. Bit distracted, maybe. I told her to take some time to herself. But she said she needed to keep going.

Then she started with these random questions. I was vaguely aware of her asking about Scarlett Johansson. About this shirt, that came out pink in the wash. About moisturiser. At first, I ignored it. It was just Chez, with some idea in her head. But I started to feel uneasy. Frowned.

And then suddenly, she came over and sat down.

"Brendan … you and me, we've … we've always been very close," she started, "and I want you to know that I wouldn't hold any grudges."

Alarm bells started to sound. And I knew this just couldn't be good, what was coming. My guard came up. Had someone been spreading stuff? Had she seen something?

"What are you talkin' about?"

"Is there something you're not telling me, love?"

My jaw set. "Like?"

She took one of my hands in both of hers. Seemed to get her thoughts together. And then she just said it.

"Are you gay?"

No. Fuck. Jesus. No.

I snatched my hand away.

"Why are you asking me that?" A pulse in my forehead throbbed, blood rushing through the veins.

"I'm just interested …"

"Where's this coming from?"

"Nowhere …" Her eyes were shifting.

"Don't lie to me, sis, not you." I turned it round on her, took control, held her eye contact. "Who've you been talking to?"

"No one," she said, shrugging. But I knew she was lying. She always was a terrible liar, Cheryl.

I looked, and kept looking. Steady. Never blinked. Like when we were kids, trying to outstare each other. She invented that game. But I always won. I won now.

She sort of crumbled, in front of me. Like she just suddenly decided it was insane, under the force of my gaze. It had to be, didn't it? Rubbed her hands over her face, said her head was all over the place. Seemed embarrassed. I think she was relieved, really, that she didn't have to deal with it. She laughed, awkward.

"You … gay? The very notion of it's ridiculous, isn't it? I'm sorry."

And I laughed back. Told her she needed some rest. But inside, I was …raging. I felt … humiliated. That she would think that crap about me. That she would think I was that. That someone had been spreading that about me. Macca was the obvious suspect. As my brain kicked in, I realised there was no way he could have told her the whole story, or she'd have been a hell of a lot more shocked. She'd probably have yelled the bloody roof in, if she'd known that. Or just been very, very quiet, stunned, betrayed. And I couldn't have that. But dropping hints about me, little things, here and there, would be exactly his style. Now, it would, anyway. He never was that underhand before, that bitter. But I guess he felt he had something to gain from me now, that he could hold me to ransom. Wrong, obviously, but that was what he thought.

He emerged down the stairs from the spare room when I was pulling on my jacket later, getting ready to head out for work.

"Hey, you been saying things about me?" I asked him, catching him at the bottom of the stairs.

He looked at me with a baleful, "what now?" kind of look.

"To who?" His eyebrows raised, arch.

"Don't mess me around, Macca." I looked into his face, to be sure. "Someone's putting it around that I'm batting for the other team."

He laughed. Sour.

"You wouldn't want that getting out now, would you?" And he looked straight back at me, and held my gaze.

I felt my temper crackle. "Did you say something to Cheryl?"

His eyes looked me up and down. "I've hardly seen her," he said, and moved away to look at the paper, turning his back on me. Like he was playing with me. Enjoying the power he thought he had.

"If I find out you've said anything …" I said to him.

I snatched the paper out of his hands. He turned his head over one shoulder, so I could see his profile. He looked thoughtful. But not guilty. There was no smug smile there, plastered across his mouth. Either he was a very good actor, or he was for real.

"Book your plane home," I told him. "Today." And I whapped him over the head with the paper. Because he was being a complete dumbass, and I was done with it, his stupid games, his stupid fantasies about him and me. If it wasn't him, all he had to say was no and get out of my face.

As I walked through the village in a fury, I had to ask myself if it could have been Stephen. It made my hands contract into fists to think about it. I didn't want to think he'd ever do that, say something to Cheryl about us, what we'd done. He'd just said to me, stay away, so why would he? But who the fuck else could it be? Because Amy was the only other one who knew, and last I'd heard, she'd been transferred up to a hospital in Manchester the day before.

I rang him. He picked up straight away, for all his words about keeping away. And he knew it was me straight off, so one thing was for sure, he hadn't deleted me from his phone just yet. I heard his voice, familiar.

"Brendan, what?" Still stroppy, angry. Such a fucking child.

"Stephen, what have you been saying to Cheryl about me?" I snapped at him.

"Nothing," his voice said, defensive, sulky. But mystified. Like he really didn't have a clue about it. "I haven't seen Cheryl for days," he said, his voice rising.

"Well someone's been shooting their mouth off about me, telling her I'm gay, and if I hear one whisper that it was you …"

"It wasn't!" I heard the protest in his voice.

"You will regret the day you ever opened your mouth …"

"I mean it!" His voice was passionate, sincere. "It wasn't me!"

"It better fucking not be, Stephen. You hear what I'm saying?"

"Bre …"

I cut him off, dead. But his voice. Worried. Not angry anymore. Like he wanted me to believe him. Interesting. And he'd always been so easy to read. Somewhere inside me, something untightened. But if not him, then who the fuck? I needed to do some research of my own. And it involved finding out who was talking to who behind my back.

I was heading over to a meeting at the SU, to talk to some guy about running club nights out of the bar while the club was closed. When we were done, I took up a position nearby, in the skate park. Macca had been there the day before, it was just his kind of crappy place, and I was pretty sure that wherever he was, Stephen would turn up eventually, his head full of questions. Looking for all those answers he'd never get from me. It was like night following day. Inevitable. All I could do would be to try to control it, turn it my way.

I hadn't been there that long when I saw them. First Macca, walking towards the bar steps. Then Stephen, running up, putting a hand on his arm to stop him. Casual, but urgent. Macca stopped, turned round. They talked for a moment. About me, no doubt. Those two, talking about me. My stomach contracted. They walked on together a little way. I watched Stephen touch him again, on the arm. They seemed friendly. But Stephen's face was serious. Macca stopped, turned to face him. Asked him a question. Stephen looked upset, confused. Hesitant. Macca's face was interested. Then resigned. Also about me, then. Macca knew. Stephen was with me now.

I saw Stephen nod his head, but look uncertain. Macca gestured with his head, as if he wanted him to go somewhere with him. Another hesitation.

Then Macca seemed to shrug, turn away. Stephen stopped him. "Why?" I heard him ask.

I didn't hear the reply. But I could guess.

I watched Stephen shift his feet, uncomfortable. Watched Macca saunter over to him, casual, almost predatory. Watched Stephen back off. Watched Macca laugh. Break the tension. Put an arm round his shoulder, and lead him away.

I followed. Gay bar, obviously. I've got no problem with that, as long as they keep themselves to themselves. I barely noticed what the place looked like when we got there, to be honest, a club's a club, there's all as bad as each other. At least it was daylight hours, there was no mouth to mouth going on, no groping, though I don't think I'd have looked if there was. I could only look at them, together. While they were at the bar, waiting to be served, I found a place to watch where I couldn't be seen.

Stephen looked uncomfortable, still. Unsure. Macca looked right at home. He was out now then, I guessed, whatever the hell that means. In part of his life, anyway. Not to his family, I'd have heard. Or maybe his Dad had just disowned him after all, told him to sling it, that he was a disgrace. Maybe that's why he'd come over in the first place, and been so desperate not to go home. I'd never thought to ask.

I watched as Stephen smiled, while they talked. Started to relax. I preferred it when he looked on hot bricks, if I'm honest. It made me feel less like I wanted to put my hand through a plate glass window. He was looking around him, now, sussing it out. I watched them get their drinks, exchanging glances.

And then Macca said something. Real casual. Stephen looked after him, shocked, as he wandered away to find a booth. And I knew Macca had told him. About him and me. Cat was well and truly out of the bag. I'd done this before, and he knew. And all I wanted was to strangle that fucking cat, then drown it for good measure, and set fire to the whole fucking lot.

They sat down together. For a moment, they disappeared out of sight. But there was a mirror on the wall. I stayed, looking up into that mirror, where I could see their reflections, clear as day. I tried to relax my hands, which kept balling into fists. My breathing seemed to have slowed almost to a dead stop. My head … there was a pain, in my head, that I couldn't even locate.

They chatted. Macca leaning forward, arms on the table. Stephen sat back. A bit of distance between them. I could breathe, while there was a distance. I saw Stephen shake his head.

Then Macca was playing with the neck of his bottle, running his fingers up and down it. I knew he was asking about me. Wanting the other side of the story. And it was nothing to do with him. Nothing about me and Stephen had anything to do with him. Stephen was different to Macca. A whole different ballgame. I hadn't meant that, when I started, but it just happened. There was no comparison.

Stephen was talking, now. He looked puzzled, like he was trying to work something out, a mystery. And Macca looked back at him, over his shoulder. His eyebrows raised, speculative.

And Stephen just kept on talking. The way he always does. Specially when he's unsure. Looking round to see if there was anyone listening. Leaning in, conspiratorial. And Macca nodded, thoughtful. And I knew he was planning something. It was written all over his scheming little face.

He leaned back in the seat, and turned towards Stephen, gesturing with a hand.

They were talking now, face to face. Voices low, quiet. I watched Stephen swallow, nervous, his Adam's apple bobbing, that way that it did, does, when he was nervous around me. Their eyes seemed to meet, and hold.

And then I saw Macca lean in, and kiss him.

He kissed him.

In plain sight.

It happened in slow motion.

I watched as Stephen closed his eyes. Leant in for it. Opened up for it. Wanted it. And then Macca pulled away. Macca did.

My pulse re-started. Slow.

Stephen's face was shocked. Confused. Macca was confusing him. He'd let a man kiss him. In front of other people. He glanced around, stunned, as a guy walked past, but not moving from his seat. And all I could do, was stand there and watch. I never stopped watching. Not for one second of it.

They stayed a bit longer. Seemed relaxed together. Like it had broken down a barrier between them. Friendly. Real cosy. They were talking, serious now. Stephen was gesturing. Telling him all his secrets, his worries. Telling him the things he'd told me, once. And then suddenly, his face fell. Like the lights went off. Macca asked him a question. And the answer on his lips was my name. "Brendan." I knew it. I knew the shape of my name on that mouth.

He looked … sad. Like I'd let him down, somehow.

Suddenly, he frowned, seemed like he shook himself, and got up and headed for the Gents. I watched as Macca finished his drink, his face pale, thoughtful. Then he shook his head, got up, and walked outside to wait for him. I took my chance.

I got up. I walked out, fast. He was standing there. I felt my anger burn, explode, erupt. I fucking hated him, for everything. For coming here, for staying, for getting hurt, for wanting more, for stirring it up, for talking to Stephen, for bringing him to this fucking shit place, for daring to kiss him, for messing with his head until he hardly knew who he was anymore.

I pushed a guy out of the way to get to him. I was blind with anger.

"Oi!" I yelled, my voice echoing around outside. And I grabbed him before he even saw me, and rammed him up against the outside wall. He was yelping, gasping for breath, whimpering.

"I thought I told you to go!" I knew I was shouting, shaking him. I was yelling at a gay guy outside a gay bar, like some pathetic queen. This is what they're like, right? All fucking melodrama? But I just had to get the fuck rid of him.

"You know why I'm staying!" he yelled back, into my face.

Stupid, stupid. I wished he'd never been fucking born.

"I'm not interested, Macca!"

And then two voices.

"Brendan!" Stephen's voice, shocked, coming close.

"I love you!" Macca's voice, desperate. Pleading.

Love.

Fucking love. What the … ? It was obscene.

"Don't you say that to me! Don't you ever say that to me!" I knew I was ramming him hard up against that wall, hurting him, and I didn't fucking care. I could feel nothing. Only rage. I hated him.

This thing he called love, it turned my stomach. That wasn't love. Love was …

"Get off him!" Stephen's voice, close, shouting now.

"How many times do I have to tell you?" I said to Macca, shoving him back again, hard, "Stay away from me, you little queer!" The word, ugly in my mouth. It was ugly. The whole thing, a fucking disgrace.

"I said, get off him!" Stephen's hand on my shoulder now, rough, shoving. For a second, I just tightened my hold on Macca's jacket. I wanted to kill him. I actually wanted to obliterate him. I wanted him dead. "I mean it!" Stephen's voice, almost screaming at me.

Suddenly, I dropped my hold. Let myself be pushed back. Stephen's hand on me. Stephen's voice.

"You've done enough damage, already!" he shouted at me, putting himself between me and Macca. My eyes fixed on him. I'd never seen him like that. Not like that. So angry. Angry, yeah, but not like that. Ferocious. "So, stay away from me!" His face was full of passion. Rage. Not fear. Then quieter. "Stay away," he pleaded, with his eyes, his mouth. Like he'd had enough.

I could almost hear the blood pumping through his heart. Thumping. Almost painful. Or maybe that was mine. My head was full of that thumping, rushing of blood, contracting, expanding, as my breath came, heavy, in and out. And his face, in front of me, pleading. And I didn't have a single word.

"How come you do what he says?" Macca's voice. Confused.

My eyes flickered past Stephen to him.

"Whatever made you come for me," I said, "forget it. There's nothing for you here. D'ye hear me?"

I pulled out some money. Passed it over Stephen's shoulder to him. Held it out. But all I could feel was Stephen's body, between us, his heart pounding, his chest heaving, and his face completely determined.

"Get to the airport," I said, and pushed the money into Macca's jacket pocket. I left my hand there for a second, pressed against his chest. Then withdrew it. "Don't come back." By the look on his face, I'd say he knew that was the end. Game over. I don't know what it was that made him realise, but I didn't care.

I couldn't look at him anymore. Because Stephen was there. I turned my eyes to him. He was … implacable. And breathtaking. The look he gave back seemed to go right into my gut. I could barely meet it. I heard air escape my lungs, like a sigh. My hand went up to his face, of its own accord. I just wanted … I just wanted to touch him. I wanted him to know he was still … important. Not the first, no, but still … special. In that moment, special. First. Only.

He turned his face away.

My hand dropped, useless, unwanted, brushing against his jacket.

And I turned and walked away from him.


	17. Chapter 17

****_Final part! The end, le Fin! This is a bit shorter, and is more of an epilogue, so hope it's not too much of an anti-climax. Thanks to anyone who's left me feedback - you just don't know how encouraging it is and interesting to hear what bits people like, and some constructive criticism as well. It's been such a blast - basically, a brilliant excuse to rewatch the old stuff and remember what an amazing, flaky, insane, funny, dark, troubled, vulnerable, charismatic, messed-up character Brendan Brady was, right from the start.  
><em>

**Trouble**

**Part 17**

I hadn't wanted Stephen to see that. Me and Macca, like that. It was … unnecessary. Humiliating. And I knew he'd be confused, have questions. Next day, getting up, I couldn't leave it. I felt a need to talk to him. To explain. To make him understand, that Macca just had to go, that he was bad news, for both of us.

First thing next morning, I found myself back at his door. Knocked. There was no answer. He had to be in there. I stood outside, a morning sun shining down on my head, knocking on the door, and I knew he was in there, and he didn't answer. It was starting to feel like I would always be finding my way to this door, and he would never answer, never open up and just say, it's OK. It's OK, I'm still yours.

"Stephen." I could hear my own voice. Even to me, it sounded pathetic. "You there? Stephen?"

I put my hand on the door, as if I'd be able to sense him, or something. Vibrations, whatever.

Then I dropped it. It seemed pointless. I had no idea, suddenly, what I was doing there, how I'd got there, ended up like that, waiting for him. I turned away and walked, slow, past the window, covered by this ratty net curtain. Stopped. And I just felt it. That he was watching me go. The hairs stood up on the back on my neck, knowing his eyes were on me, that he was in there, breathing, his heart hammering. I saw a shadow pull back. It was stupid. The whole thing was stupid. For him not to be able to look me in the eye, speak to me. That he'd reduced me to this, hanging around outside his door. No one messes with me like that. He'd almost made me forget who I was. I needed to remind myself, and him. I squared my shoulders. Walked away.

He was easy enough to flush out, anyway, if you were canny. All I had to do was hang a left down a side street, wait for him to walk past, and then follow him. And there he was, a few minutes later, walking fast, determined, head down. He seemed in a hurry, almost breaking into a run, his face serious, his eyebrows drawn together. He ended up at the diner, of all places. Relish. I had no idea why. It was still closed, way too early for them to be opening. Must be some kind of emergency. I watched him hammer on the doors, peering through to see if there was anyone there.

"Here y'are," I said, as if it was pure chance, walking up behind him.

His head whipped round over his shoulder, taken by surprise, his mouth open, and then he moved away like a scalded cat, his shoulder barging past mine, he was in such a hurry to get away.

"I told you to stay away from me," he said, as he went.

I followed him, step for step.

"Listen to that wee boyfriend of yours, yeah?" I said.

That got him. People had used that fucking tag on me often enough. He slowed. Stopped. Turned around to face me. He laughed, hard, cynical.

"So you saw me kissing Macca, then?" His face was defiant. Interesting. I'd not seen that for a long time. Not since that day in the office, months ago, when he looked me in the eye and I knew I had to have him. He'd done a lot of other things in between. Lust. Fear. Hurt. Anger. But not defiance. Like he'd found something he'd lost. "Is that why you went mental at him?" he asked, taking a step closer to me. "What's wrong? Were you jealous?" He pushed his face towards me with the word. Like he was dying to provoke a reaction.

Very interesting. It was new, this. This lack of fear. And I felt a response in my groin that I hardly expected. I never thought I ever would have said it, but I realised that I kind of liked defiance. On him, anyway. As long as he ended up underneath me in the end, defiance was just fine. The thought of subduing him turned me on.

"Jealous?" I said, in response. "Of Macca? Have you … have you seen my face?" Because the whole idea was fucking absurd. I have never, in my life, had need to be jealous of anyone.

He scoffed. "I had to stop you giving him a beating," he said, his brows drawn together, still angry.

I stepped up to him, very close. "Well, that's cos you have something I want … " I said.

I couldn't have him thinking it was because I cared. Because I was weak. This was only about what we could take from each other. That was all it ever had been. He looked at me, trying to puzzle it out, suspicious. His mouth was, as always, slightly open. I tilted my head, angled myself towards it. It really was such a great mouth. It was good to be close to it again. Close. Closer. And, for a second, against his will, his face softened at the last moment. He sure as hell didn't push me away.

I had what I needed, anyway. Submission. Pulled back.

"Voicemail," I said.

He laughed again, short, hard. Disappointed, probably. "Yeah," he said, "well, I'm saving that for the coppers. When they send you down for arson and murder."

Still harping on that. He was obsessed. It was getting boring.

"How many times I gotta tell you, Stephen? I don't hurt women or their children." I looked into his eyes. "And I didn't start the fire." You'd think he'd be able to tell what was truth, and what was lies, by now. But he couldn't.

"Well, the voicemail proves that you put the fear of God into Amy."

"I'm not an arsonist."

"Right. So why do you want me to delete it so bad, then?" Christ, anyone would think he wanted to believe I did it.

I looked around, then back at him.

"Look, Stephen, I'm hardly Snow White, am I? Last thing I need are cops sniffing around." I stood and looked at him. "You know me better than anyone," I said to him, willing him back to me. "You hand over that message to the police, it's gonna cause me a whole heap of trouble that I don't need."

But it was no good. His lips were pressed together in a thin smile. Cynicism written all over his face. When did he get so cynical? He wasn't like that when I met him.

"Yeah," he said, "that's my point."

And anyone would think he wanted me put away. Maybe he thought that'd be safer for him, if I wasn't around to make him want me the way he did. To make him want to keep putting his hand back into the fire. But I was done playing. Got up in his face. Dropped my voice low.

"And I'll cause you a whole heap of trouble that you don't need, mate," I said to him. Because that's all he was to me, right then. Trouble. His mouth turned down, sullen. But at least he shut up. "Let's think about this for a bit. What happens to those kids if the cops find a shedload of cocaine on ye? The courts, throw away, the keys. Simple as." Because I knew he was on his own with those kids, now, since Amy had gone back to her Dad. They were all he had, and he was all they had. Single parent. Tough gig.

"I don't do drugs though, do ah?" He could be so slow, sometimes.

"I know that," I told him. "You know that. But it's gonna be easy enough for me to convince the cops that you're up to your eyeballs." I watched his face fall as the penny dropped. The defiance was wiped off it, history. "Do yourself a favour, Stevie boy. Delete the voicemail." And I was gonna leave it there. But he looked so crestfallen. It almost seemed a shame. I liked him when he was feisty. I stopped. "Pretty please," I said. "With a cherry on top."

And I left him the way that he tried to leave me. With a push past his shoulder that left him feeling me in every part of his body. I was starting to think that maybe fighting with him was almost as much fun as fucking him. Almost.

I didn't go far, obviously. I went back a couple of hours later when that diner was open, to find out what he wanted there that was so urgent. Stood and watched under a leaden sky from the skatepark. The sun had disappeared.

And there was a guy there now, working, coming in and out, clearing plates of leftover chips, wiping tables. Little guy, in every sense of the word. That brother of Tony Hutchinson's. Sad little guy, desperate, the one who came to ask me for the money, the day before the fire. Dominick, his name was, though everyone called him Dom, talked down to him. Tony had been collared by this point. Taken in for questioning, they said. Insurance deal that got out of hand, just as I thought. It was only Stephen who still seemed to want to think it was me. I guess he just didn't want to believe someone he'd believed in, looked up to, could have caused such a fucking mess, though it didn't seem to stop him pinning it on me.

And there he was now, Stephen, turning back up, going in through the doors. I hadn't even thought. These guys, they knew each other. Stephen had worked there, a while back. They were the closest he had to mates, the Hutchinson brothers. But I thought he'd pissed them off, drifted apart from them. Looked like he was back in with them, now.

He was in there for about half an hour. Came out looking serious, looking round over his shoulder, and headed off. I waited a couple of minutes, to be sure we'd be on our own, but to be honest it looked like business was bad. Maybe no one wanted to be associated with a guy who'd torched his own place and ended up killing people.

I walked in through the doors.

"We're closed," the little guy said, from behind the counter. He was looking down at something he was cradling in his hands. I knew what it was, right off. Stephen's phone.

I bolted the doors.

"This'll only take a minute," I said to him. And smiled. Watched fear spread over his face. And I knew this was gonna be easy.

It was. Easier than I could have imagined. He blabbed, straight off. Course it was Stephen's phone. He'd asked him to look after it for him, he said, waving it around, nervous. Then he started babbling. He'd heard the message, he said. Knew Amy was terrified of me. I guess he was desperate to get his brother off the hook. But I could almost see the panic in his eyes as I got close. Put my hands on the counter.

And then he surprised me. He. Surprised me.

"You're a bad person, right?" he said, his eyes full of trouble. "You do bad things?"

Odd. I sighed. "Yeah," I said. Sure, if that's what he wanted to think. If it made it easier for me, then yeah. I'd used that all my life. I used it now.

"How do you sleep at night?" he asked me, his voice shaking.

"Like a baby," I said, watching him, interested, his face frozen in horror at something only he could see.

"No guilt?" he asked me. "No remorse for what you put other people through?"

I laughed. "No." You do what you have to do. No point in beating yourself up about it later. Plenty of others who'll do that for you if you give them the chance.

"How do you do it?" he asked me.

I remember wondering, vaguely, what he knew about me. How much Stephen had told him. About what there was between us. About everything that had happened that connected us, him and me.

I shrugged. "Dunno," I said. "Comes naturally, I guess."

And then he started to slide.

"No," he said, "I really need you to tell me how you do it, cos I just can't …" and his voice broke. He swallowed. There were tears in his eyes.

And then he started talking. He knew it wasn't me started the fire, he said. Because it was him.

And he gave it all up. Every gory detail.

How Tony had got into money trouble, a real mess. How the oven had packed up and he needed a new one, and didn't have a dime to pay for it. How Tony would never have done an insurance job himself. How Dominick just wanted to help him. How he was sick of being the little man, the one who everyone ignored, treated like nobody, a joke. How he'd just wanted to do something good, something that would help out his brother. And then how there was something in there, that shouldn't have been in there, that he needed to get rid of. So he thought he'd kill two birds with one stone. So to speak. How it had only been meant to be a little fire. How he hadn't known those gas canisters were there. How it had all got out of hand.

It was sad, pathetic, little stuff. Not some great drama, some evil plot. It was just a sad little man, and a whole heap of mess.

I'm not easily surprised, but it took me aback, that did.

I got a full confession. And I'd only gone in for the phone.

* * *

><p>I didn't even have to do anything in the end, with any of it. I had what I came for, the phone, the message well and truly deleted, history. And for the rest, he was just the type to spill of his own accord. He was aching to do it, I could see that, to get it all off his chest, clear his conscience. Wash those deaths from his hands. Because Malachy was dead too now. He died the day before, the day I told Macca to go. I'd come home late, after I'd cleared my head, after I knew Macca would have cleared out his stuff. I stood in the kitchen looking down at the only thing he'd left behind. A spare key that Chez had given him, on the kitchen bench. I picked it up, folded it into my palm. For a second, I remembered the spare key to his flat, the one I made him get cut for me, remembered him standing there, stark naked, dropping it into my hand. Remembered a summer spent coming up the stairs, letting myself in. It was only six months ago. Felt like six years.<p>

And then Cheryl rang, the phone breaking into my consciousness. He was dead, she said, Malachy. She was coming home. And she cried. And I listened. A strange sensation, in my chest. It had been a hell of a day. You'd think I'd be happy. The obstacles between me and what I wanted were falling like ninepins. Amy. Macca, Mal. But no one celebrates a death, do they? If they're hard-faced bastards who die, maybe. But not someone you've shared a life with. Not even when he made himself as much of a pain as Malachy did.

And now I was off the hook for the fire, and I didn't have to do a damn thing. It's fair to say the few days after that confession were interesting, but I just sat back and watched it unfold. Tony was released. No evidence against him. And then before anyone had a chance to draw breath, cop cars were back in the village, drawing up outside that diner again. They both came out, people said, the Hutchinsons. Quiet. But it wasn't Tony they took away this time. It was his brother. Fessed up the whole thing.

It was all anyone could talk about. Deaths. Funerals. Arrests. How they couldn't believe it, not a quiet fella like that. More than happy to believe it was me, but when faced with the truth, all open mouths and would you believe it, bunch of street corner gasbags.

I stayed out of it. The dust would settle, soon enough. Everyone always thinks things will never be the same again, after a blow-up like that, but life goes on. And while Cheryl grieved, I had things to do. I'd agreed with the guys at the SU Bar that we'd move in while the roof of the club got fixed. It suited everyone. They had a place and no manager, and we had plenty of manpower and booze, and nowhere to shift it. So Chez Chez subar it was, and everyone was happy. But there was a lot to do, moving our stuff over, getting set up ready to reopen. I worked. And I waited. He was still off work, Stephen, so he could mind his kids. But I waited to see if he'd come. Waited to see what he had to say now that it turns out his own mate set that fire. That I wasn't the person he'd decided I was.

Two days, nothing. Silence.

My fingers itched to contact him, but I still waited.

Then the third morning, a text.

_Bren, I really need to C U._

So he was ready to talk, then. I didn't reply. He would come. I would let him come and find me.

It was when I was on the terrace, sorting out a load of deliveries, that I heard him. His footsteps, unmistakeable, scuffing the ground as he approached. Stopped. Came up the steps. I turned a head over one shoulder. He was … he was just him. After everything, just him. After Mal and Veronica, Amy and Carmel, Eileen and Macca and the fire. Tall, skinny, trackies, trainers. Hair swept across his forehead. Half sort of graceful, half all kinds of awkward. Angular. Beautiful.

I stuck a pen behind one ear and looked at him, expectant.

He wasn't angry any more. Or sad. He wasn't smiling, either.

"Can we talk?" he said, his voice soft.

"'Bout what?" I asked him. I wasn't going to make this easy for him. He owed me. He owed me for having no faith in what I was. What I … what I felt for him, I guess, whatever that was. And his mouth was open, as always. He looked sorry. He was gonna tell me he was sorry.

"Us," he said.

Not sorry. And there was something in his tone, as I looked at him. It suddenly seemed like a very grey day. Cold. Like November should be, I guess, the end of November. Real different from the start, when I'd come down the steps of the club in the sunshine and teased him about his kids, and called him in to me, and given him coffee, and talked to him in the cellar, and kissed him. It had been a long month.

He opened his mouth again. But it was all in his eyes, pleading. I hardly even needed to listen.

"I can't do this anymore," he said.

I set my jaw. "Do wha'?" I asked, between gritted teeth. I felt a muscle twitch in my cheek.

"You," he said, in his soft voice, that came straight from his chest. "This." He looked down. "Whatever we're doing."

"Don't quite follow, Stephen," I said.

There was a silence. And then he looked at me. Sad. His eyes dark, deepset. Took a breath.

"It's over," he said.

* * *

><p>I stood and looked at him, long, and deep. I felt like I'd been looking at that face, his face, all my life. I couldn't even remember a time when I hadn't been looking at that face, or think about a time when I wouldn't be looking at that face, even if it killed me to keep looking.<p>

I turned away, picked up one of the crates, curling my hands around it, hard, and walked away from him into the bar.

* * *

><p>He followed me. He couldn't leave it. He never can. I could hear his voice behind me, earnest. I don't know who he was trying to persuade.<p>

"I just think it's for the best, you know … fresh start an' that."

I banged the crate down on the counter top, hearing the glass bottles rattle. I felt them in my teeth, my spine. I kept my back to him as he went on talking, always talking. He paused. Took a breath. Dropped his voice.

"Sneaking around … it just feels wrong."

Wrong. Yeah. He'd decided we were wrong. He had. My breathing came and went, heavy.

"Rae deserves better than this."

Rae did. Did she? Better. Better than what? Better than him and me? Better than what we had that night he stayed over, his legs over my shoulders, his body pulsing to the rhythm of me fucking him, his hands clutching at me, him moaning into my mouth, like he'd never known pleasure like it, and afterwards, in the middle of the night, lying inside the crook of my arm, looking at me like he … like him and me was better than anything he'd ever known? Better than what we had when we were in that hotel room, that shower, when the water ran down off his eyelashes and I pressed him back against the tiles, groin to groin, bodies wet and slippery? Better than what we had when I touched him afterwards, stroking his damp skin, let him touch me. I turned round to face him.

"And you tell me this, because?" I asked him.

A frown passed over his face. He shook his head slightly. His voice was low again.

"Because I don't wanna hurt anyone." His lips were very full. The arch of that fucking cupid's bow, reminding me where I'd rested my finger, the night I let him stay over. His face, concerned now.

Hurt? Hurt who? Rae? Him? Or … me? Was he talking about me? I laughed. Him … hurt me? I can't be hurt like that. I decided that a long time ago. You'd have thought he'd have known.

"I don't care, Stephen." He looked into my eyes, puzzled, shaking his head in disbelief. "Why're you wasting my time with this? Shouldn't you be at home playing happy families?"

And he seemed to crack. "It's not as simple as that," he said, frustrated.

"Oh no?"

And he looked back at me. His face was the same as the one I'd met that day back in September. But different. I tried to remember what he'd looked like, when I'd first known him, when he larked about, innocent, open, playing the fool, clueless, and then later, when I'd stroke his face, and he'd smile, all teeth and eyelashes. But something had changed. Experience was written all over it, now. Lines of feeling that couldn't be rubbed out. He shook his head.

"Not for me," he said, soft.

And I knew it. I knew, then, what he wanted.

I knew that if I reached out my hand, right then, if I just touched him on the arm, if I said c'mon then, let's talk, he would come with me. I knew that if I explained to him, about Macca, how it happened, what it meant, or didn't mean, he would listen. I knew that if I said to him, you and me, whatever this is, let's see how it goes then, he would nod, eager. I knew that if I told him I'd take him out, somewhere, sometime, when I'd got my head round it, he'd break into a smile.

"Really?" he'd say, his bottom lip between his teeth.

"Sure," I'd say. And I'd stroke my fingers along his neck, feeling the life of him in my hand.

And I knew if I kissed him, then, he'd kiss me back, his arms clinging on around my neck.

I knew if I just used the right touch, the right words, the right kiss, if I told him what he wanted to hear, gave him what he wanted … no one would ever take him away from me again.

But what the fuck would that make me?

I laughed, and turned away.

"Yeah," I said. Grabbed a couple of bottles from the crate. And walked right away from him.

* * *

><p>I let him go. I felt a dull rage at him, at the world, that wasn't like anything I'd ever felt before. It filled every part of my body, my mind. People didn't leave me. I don't get left. Never, since I became a man, have I ever let anyone walk away from me like that. I do the leaving, the walking. This wasn't over. It would be over when I said it would be over, and not a second before. He must have been out of his mind.<p>

Funny though, how hard it was to stay angry with him. I'll call him, I thought, couple of hours later, when I was tired and aching from work, my anger taken out on everything and everyone around me until I was done with it. He'd have come round, sure enough, he always did. And there must be some room for negotiation here, right? Maybe some of those words that had stuck in my throat in the bar could still get spoken. Stupid stuff. Stuff you use with the people you … the people in your life. But he needed to hear them. So what was the harm?

My phone was in my hand. He would be, soon enough. My hands would be on his shoulders, his neck. My thumbs would run underneath his jaw. And he'd look at me, that way that he does.

And that's when I saw them.

Arms around, lovey dovey. Stephen and his blonde girl, Rae. Close as anything in a tight, tight hug. Like they were everything.

And she was no one, really. From the moment he'd kissed me, she'd been no one. Since the poker, and the casino, and the flat, and the cellar, she'd been no one. He'd forgotten her, the moment I made him mine. He could only see me, feel me, after that. My mouth, my teeth, my tongue, my fingers, my cock, me, inside him. The bed, the hotel, and the noises we made together there, breathing into each other's mouths, sucking on each other's lips, tongues. It was my name in his mouth, around the village, at work, at home, underneath me, as he came, crying it out, so loud I wanted to put a hand over his mouth. She was nothing, to that, nothing. I never even heard him mention her name again until I told him to call her. So she was no one, but …

I'd never held him like that. Not like that, not without pulling away, not even in the hospital. Not in public, and maybe only once in private, when he was upset. And I had never once let him hold me back. I couldn't imagine it. Like there was some damn thing standing in between, that stopped me taking what I wanted. Like a firewall, something you can't get past, over or under, patrolled by the Guards. I wondered for a second how long it'd been there. Who'd put it there. What happened if you started wanting to put your fist through it.

And that's when I realised.

It was her, all along. I never even thought. Not Amy. And not Macca. Or any of the others who I'd had to battle to get to him. Cheryl, and Eileen, and Danny, and Mal. None of those. I'd got it all wrong. They weren't the real threat. She was. Rae. Because she was the one who held him the way he wanted to be held. Like that. Because she was the one who let him love her. And she was the one who made him feel loved.

He needed to be loved.

The phone snapped shut under the pressure of my hand.

* * *

><p>This isn't the end.<p>

Things like this, him and me, they don't end just because you want them to. I know that one day soon, when he's secure with his girl, when he thinks he's got everything he wanted, safe and cosy and boring as hell, he will look across at me, and he'll sense the danger, smell it, taste it, and he'll want it again, same as me. He won't be able to help himself. It's in him, part of him, to want me now. And I'll smile, and joke with him, and watch him fall, blushing, pink rising up the back of his neck. And he'll give me that look which says, come get me, and I'll follow him home, that road that always leads to his door. And when I get there, he'll open it, and smile, and I'll step inside, and kick it shut behind me as he reaches for me. And we'll let the black flames lick at our flesh again, until the darkness swallows us.

Sometimes, I think maybe it should be the end. I almost wish I could finish the whole damn thing. Because I want to protect him, I do. I want him to be happy, and I never much cared like that before. I want him to be mine, a fit, a match, looking me in the eye and wanting me and not being afraid. I want him to be in the club, in the flat, in the village. I want him to be in the car, running down the beach, at the end of the road, in my bed. I want to bury my mouth in his neck while he lies underneath me, and feel that he's smiling as he wraps himself around me, and I close my eyes, and let myself drown.

But he is always going to want more than I can give him. And I am never going to be the person he wants me to be. Because I'm not that. I'm just not. And because maybe he's right. Him, and every damn other person who thinks they know me. I'm just bad. I'll always be bad, I'll never change, it's who I am. I'm Brendan Brady, and I wear it like a curse. A dead man's suit. And I am always going to hurt him, and he is always going to cry, no matter what I do.

I was born in trouble, and I've lived in trouble, and trouble will always drag me down in the end.

I should really walk away, pull the cord, bail out now. For both our sakes. Because we're going to hell, and I can't stop it.

But then, I never did believe in happy endings.


End file.
